


Danger and Doubt

by Aiepathy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No A.L.I.E. (The 100), Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake is a History & Mythology Nerd, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Lack of Communication, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Soft Bellamy Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 65,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiepathy/pseuds/Aiepathy
Summary: Excerpt: A thousand questions filled Bellamy’s head. He wanted to know every detail of her time away. Not just the ones Kane would fish for in the morning, but the mundane stuff, too. He had already been too selfish, though, so, instead of giving in, he dipped his head and repeated, “You should sleep.”Pushing off the doorframe was as difficult as ripping the moon out of rotation around the Earth. This time, though, he turned and walked away before Clarke could do or say something that might draw him back in. He could already feel the tides altering irreversibly as he put distance between them.She needs sleep; she’ll be there in the morning; she’s home, she’s safe, she’s home. Bellamy repeated these affirmations to himself – only half-believing them – all the way back to the gunshed..Canon Divergence: what if Bellamy found Clarke before Roan? What if she came back to Arkadia instead of being taken to Polis?.[Season 3 Rewrite]
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 153
Kudos: 425





	1. Bellamy

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over four years since I've written anything in The 100 fandom. I was rewatching the early seasons a couple months ago, however, and was gripped with inspiration.
> 
> This is a canon divergent fic picking up at the beginning of Season 3. What would happen if Bellamy found Clarke before Roan? If there was no ALIE? If there was no Pike? A lot of 'what-ifs' here!
> 
> Very plot-centric Bellarke. Lots of slow burn and angst because these two really can't communicate. Canon typical violence/sexual content.

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

He had landed on the ground with a stolen Guard jacket, a pistol, and a responsibility to protect his sister. Now, Bellamy Blake had a list of responsibilities a mile-long – number one was a woman he hadn’t seen in three months.

Bellamy aggressively flicked his metal blade over the wooden one taking shape in his hand. He was sitting high in a tree near the Azgeda border. It was lush here with thick trees giving way to rolling stretches of grass before thinner trees once again burst forth from the ground. It was winter and the coverage wasn’t optimal, but he used this to his advantage. He was more visible but so were they – the Azgeda scouts that had begun to cross the border more frequently in the past weeks. Through the thin trees, Bellamy could see the scouts and radio down to Indra before they ever crossed Eden’s Pass; it was a good system and it occupied a good portion of his time.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help his mind drifting to Clarke.

He had started searching for her when a month passed and she hadn’t returned; he had grown frantic when legends of Wanheda started being passed around the grounder villages. Now, he was coiled impossibly tight at the news Indra passed him that morning – Queen Nia of Azgeda had announced a bounty on Wanheda. Bellamy lifted his hand to press against his sternum where his t-shirt was slightly nicked. Indra’s sword pressing firmly against his chest was the only thing that had stopped him from going rogue. He had reluctantly agreed to finish their scouting mission before renewing his search for Clarke and, when Indra’s sword dropped away, silently promised himself that he would single-handedly knock on every door on the ground, territory be damned, if it meant finding her.

They had pulled the level to irradiate Mount Weather together and she had left him to pick up the pieces. It left his blood boiling more often than not these days. He wanted to give her a taste of that anger. He also wanted to fall at her feet and beg her to come home. He wasn’t sure how to do both, but, if he could just find her, he was sure he would figure it out.

Bellamy’s radio clicked in a short and precise pattern, interrupting the spiral of his thoughts. Time to come down, he thought with relief, swinging his foot over the edge of the branch. His arms flexed as he lowered himself before dropping the rest of the way. He landed on the balls of his feet with a muffled thud, gun knocking against his back.

At the bottom of an adjacent tree was Monty, rolling his shoulders as though working out a cramp. He had become a good Guard, Bellamy thought, a sense of pride in his friend. He had stepped up when Clarke left and the Guard was better for it.

Striding in their direction was Kane, grim-faced, gun lifted and at the ready as he traversed alone through the woods. Bellamy’s eyes narrowed at that, a dozen worst-case scenarios running through his mind in rapid succession. He was already cursing Azgeda, the Commander, and even himself when Kane stopped in front of them. Kane laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. It was a paternal gesture Bellamy wasn’t particularly fond of and it brought him no comfort.

“Indra and I spotted bounty hunters.” Bellamy’s muscles tensed, coiling and ready for a fight. “We don’t know that they’re here for Clarke,” Kane added quickly, the fingers on Bellamy’s shoulder tightening.

He could have torn out of the grip easily, but his attempt to make a real place for himself in Arkadia, the mutual respect he had slowly cultivated with Kane and Chancellor Griffin – it was all contingent on setting an example for what the Guard could be on the ground. He had to choose his battles and, despite every muscle in his body telling him to find Clarke immediately, he recognized that, this time, waiting for Kane to say his piece might be the best option.

“We have reason to believe there’s a trader in the area who may know where she is.”

“Then let’s go,” Bellamy said, shoving the whittled knife into a pocket on the side of his jacket. It wasn’t a particularly effective weapon compared to the rifle strapped over his shoulder or the steel knife strapped to his waist, but, if he had learned one thing on the ground, it was that anything could become a weapon and options meant survival.

“We don’t storm in demanding answers,” Kane warned, leading the way back to the rover. The edge of command in Kane’s voice made Bellamy’s jaw clench.

“We do if Clarke’s there.”

Kane didn’t respond, but Bellamy knew it wasn’t the end of the conversation.

The man had become an enigma to Bellamy since Mount Weather. He had been ruthless on the Ark, but he had somehow become a diplomat on the ground. Chancellor Griffin had the pin, but Bellamy was increasingly certain that Kane was pulling the strings. It didn’t bother Bellamy how the two wanted to work out their share of power, but he would be damned if he became their puppet. He would play their political games and legitimize their directives, but he wouldn’t bow down and kiss their boots, especially not when Clarke was out there somewhere being hunted down.

So, they walked in silence, eyes roving the trees for threats.

* * *

The drive was as silent as the walk, but this silence was different. It was a silence of people afraid to jinx themselves; the ground was brutal and it was particularly skilled at detecting hope.

Bellamy’s mind raced as they drove. There were too many ways for things to go wrong; too many variables and not enough options. This was a young Bellamy’s worst fear. There had always been too many ways for Octavia to be caught and not enough ways to protect her. Now, an adult Bellamy, clad in a Guard uniform with a former Chancellor sitting behind him, felt as small and helpless as he had when Octavia was born.

Monty pulled the rover into a copse of thick foliage, trees rising on either side, and cut the engine, the rover’s light dimming immediately. The sun had long set and the only light was a soft glow from the trading post some distance ahead.

The protocol was to return to Arkadia or find shelter for the night far from the Azgeda border. Kane hadn’t mentioned it, however, and Bellamy couldn’t risk missing Clarke again. For just a second, the thought occurred to Bellamy that Kane also wasn’t willing to return to Arkadia without Clarke, if only for Abby Griffin’s sake.

Jumping from the car, resolve calming his nerves, Bellamy strode towards the trading post, body falling into auto-pilot.

“Slow down,” Kane warned, but the blood pounding in Bellamy’s ears drowned out the words.

The front door to the trading post was closed and only a soft light emitted from the cracks at the edges where the door was poorly fit to the frame. Various goods Bellamy recognized as low-value trade items from some of the more far-flung clans hung around the door and in small piles on the ground. Other unsorted and low-value goods sat in piles around the lot. A small basin of water with a cup beside it for travelers sat on a short table next to the door.

Bellamy was constantly struck with surprise by how lived in the ground was. He had once imagined the ground as a place of only trees and rivers and animals. He had imagined there might be ruins and dreamed of getting just a glimpse of the Circus Maximus or the Colosseum. Never, on the Ark, could he have imagined the complex society they now lived alongside. Seeing this small piece of humanity, as it often did, calmed something inside of Bellamy and made it a little easier to slow down. If Clarke had been here, he could convince himself she was okay, that she had been provided food and water and, perhaps, a kind smile.

Bellamy hesitated at the door; if he was wrong and Clarke wasn’t here –

The thought petered out as Kane and Monty caught up. “Maybe we should wait until morning,” Monty offered, glancing at the dark structure in front of them.

Bellamy considered it and Kane made a noise of approval.

A twig cracked around the corner. All three men lifted their guns in unison, Kane moving to the front of the formation, holding his hand up in a reminder not to fire as they approached the edge of the trading post.

A woman was facing away from them. She had long red braids and a heavy leather jacket drawn tight around her body. She was bent over a small pack that she seemed to be reweighting. “Niylah,” Bellamy said, lowering his gun and taking a step around Kane. Indra said a woman called Niylah and her father ran this post; if Bellamy believed in luck, he would count himself lucky that she was still awake at such a late hour.

The woman tensed like a rabbit caught in a trap.

Then, before Bellamy could continue, he was on the ground, a heavy knife pressed to his throat. His back ached from the impact and every breath seemed to rub his skin dangerously against the blade. “Don’t move,” the woman hissed, eyes unfocused in the dark.

There was a second where Bellamy attempted to strategize the best way out of his current position. In the next, the moon emerged from a bank of clouds, and the knife was gone. His eyes focused. “Bellamy,” she whispered.

“Clarke,” he said, awe tinging his voice. She was alive. It was the only thought he could process until the reality of it set firmly into his bones, filling his lungs and knitting into his soul. “Truce?” Bellamy asked, painfully aware of her knee pressing into his sternum. The words were punctuated by a cough as he motioned to her knee.

Clarke shifted her weight quickly, lifting herself to her feet and offering Bellamy a hand. He took it, awareness of how much he missed her touch threatening to drown him. She, he noticed, dropped his hand as soon as he was firmly on his feet, stepping back quickly. Her knife remained in her hand as she dusted herself off, avoiding his gaze.

“No truce,” a voice said from the shadows. Bellamy turned, lifting his gun in the process.

A man was standing on the edge of the shadows. He had greasy brown hair that hung down either side of his face like a shield and black paint smudged in diagonal lines across his face. Something about the set of the man’s shoulders, strong and self-assured, told Bellamy a truth he hoped Clarke sensed as well. In each of his hands was a long blade; one was pressed to Kane’s throat and the other to Monty’s.

“Wanheda,” he drawled, eyes fixing on Clarke.

“Let them go,” Clarke commanded, stepping around and in front of Bellamy. It made his skin prickle. He knew from experience he wouldn’t like what was about to do, but he still had his gun trained firmly on the man’s head and, as long as no one moved, he could make the shot.

“I’m faster than you think,” the man said, sparing only a short glance at Bellamy. “You shoot me and they both die.”

Bellamy hesitated. Clarke lifted a hand, the one carrying the knife and said, “Put down the gun, Bellamy.” Her voice was even and it made him want to yell at her that the gun was the only thing keeping their friends’ heads attached to their shoulders, the only thing keeping her from becoming this man’s prisoner.

“Listen to Wanheda,” the man said with a sly grin.

“Let them go. I’m the one you want,” Clarke said, taking another step forward.

“Why not kill them and take you?” the man’s voice dropped the drawl and took on a refined edge. It made Bellamy all the more skeptical of Clarke’s current approach. This was all clearly a game; he was a cat toying with a den of mice. Bellamy was pretty sure no cat had ever been satisfied with one mouse when they could have four.

“We’ll pay you for your trouble,” Kane offered. Bellamy stepped forward jerkily as the blade bit into Kane’s neck, a rivulet of blood snaking down his neck and staining his collar.

“This is between me and the girl,” the man said, jerking both Monty and Kane closer. The movement obscured Bellamy’s shot. He cursed himself for hesitating. Clarke’s way had better work, he thought, because, if it didn’t, he would take whatever shot he could get before letting her become a prisoner.

“It is.” Clarke’s agreement was accompanied by a stiff nod. “So, if you let them go, they go home and I go with you. No fight.” Clarke took another step forward and Bellamy mirrored it like a moon stuck in her gravitational pull.

“Drop your knife,” the man commanded. Clarke lifted her hand, showing him the blade, then tossed it back towards Bellamy.

She took another step closer.

The distance between Clarke and the man was inconsequential now and he seemed to consider the situation.

Clarke’s eyes cut back looking from the knife to the gun in Bellamy’s hands for just a fraction of a second. He tightened his fingers around the stock of the gun and gritted his teeth to stop himself from intervening in whatever dance Clarke was doing. He had seen it in the glance that she didn’t really plan to go without a fight – now, he just had to hope that he could still read those glances after so long apart.

“You won’t follow us,” the man said, “or I’ll rip your throats out with my bare hands.” It wasn’t a threat so much as a warning.

He shoved Kane and Monty forward in the same motion he grabbed Clarke. His movements were precise and didn’t waste a drop of energy. Bile rose in Bellamy’s throat as one of the man’s arms wrapped around Clarke’s waist to secure her in place.

Bellamy’s gun remained focused on the target; if Clarke shifted just a little to the right, he could take out the man’s shoulder. Looking down the sights, now, he took a deep breath, ready to pull the trigger. Just before he squeezed, the man’s hand faltered. Clarke was gripping a heavy wooden blade, plunged deep into his thigh. She nodded at Bellamy and he squeezed the trigger, a round discharging and blasting through his shoulder, the impact at such a close range sending him sprawling backward.

Clarke withdrew the blade from his thigh as he stumbled, then shoved hard against his already wounded shoulder sending him sprawling to the ground. She lunged, pressing her knife against his neck. Matching red stains bloomed at his thigh and shoulder. “Tie him up,” Clarke commanded, motioning with her free hand to the pack she had dropped in the commotion.

Bellamy grabbed the rope inside the pack and unfurled it. The man wheezed and let out a low groan. “Wanheda strikes again,” he said, another pained grown wracking his body as Bellamy roughly pulled his hands together.

The wound on his leg was precise; it was deep, down to the muscle, but not much larger than half an inch in length and width. The one on his shoulder was open and fleshy, cords of torn muscle visible. Even if it was given ample time to heal, Bellamy would be surprised if it regained full functionality. He pulled the rope tighter and the man gritted his teeth.

Once the man was securely restrained and propped up against the trading post wall, Clarke knelt in front of him, pushing his hair back from his temples. A whoosh of air that sounded like a hiss passed her lips. The deep scars on his temples, stretching up to his forehead and down towards his cheeks, painted a clear picture. “Azgeda,” they whispered together.

Bellamy had his knife at the ready in less than a second.

Clarke’s fingers landed on his arm. “Leave him.”

He hesitated; he wanted to plunge his knife through the man’s chest, to feel it crack his sternum or slide between his ribs and up into his heart. Bellamy didn’t relish killing, but three months of hurt and fear and grief had twisted into something nasty.

Sighing, he glanced at Clarke’s face and any desire to kill drained from his body. “He’s a traitor to the Coalition,” she said, looking down at the man. “His life isn’t ours to take.”

Bellamy straightened and the fingers on his arm fell away. He sheathed the knife, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. The adrenaline had left his hands shaky and his mouth tasted metallic. Clarke was safe; repeating those three words offered him some modicum of control.

“Clarke.” Monty’s voice was hopeful.

Bellamy watched as the two embraced, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. They shared a few words he couldn’t quite hear before Clarke continued on to Kane. He could see a shadow of nervousness on her face as she asked, “My mom?”

Kane’s face lit up as he offered Clarke a firm handshake and said, “Will be happy to see you.”

Clarke’s body didn’t relax at those words and Bellamy found himself observing her closer. She began to gather the red braids that hung around her shoulders, securing them with a leather tie before saying, “Tell her I love her.” Her voice wavered and Bellamy immediately keyed into the sadness filling her eyes.

“Why can’t you?” Bellamy asked, voice gruff with restrained accusation.

Clarke looked at the ground, then glanced at his face for a split second before her eyes settled on a point just over his shoulder. “I can’t,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, a pleading look on her face. Bellamy knew she wanted him to drop it, not to make her explain herself, to let her just walk away. He had done that once; he had vowed to himself not to do it again.

Clarke sucked in a deep breath. Her chin tilted up and it took a massive amount of restraint on Bellamy’s part to keep his face from showing amusement at the familiar gesture. How many times had the sighed, tilted her chin up, and totally stole the show back at the dropship? She was a natural leader and, even now, it showed.

Clarke opened her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice that interrupted the silence. “Get back.”

Bellamy cursed the continued interruptions; he was tired of people always having hidden accomplices and allies. Before he could respond, however, Clarke was saying, “These are my friends, Niylah. They’re Skaikru.”

The blonde woman standing near the corner of the trading post was holding a heavy-looking sword. There was a pause as the woman, Niylah, raked her eyes over Clarke as though checking for injuries before she nodded and said, “There is a shelter,” pointing towards a wooden shack behind the trading post, “if you would like to continue this inside.” Her eyes darted around the property as though expecting an attacker to emerge. “He had a partner earlier,” she added, eyes jumping between Bellamy and the bleeding attacker. She motioned the group to follow, sword still poised in a defensive position across the front of her body.

“We appreciate the invitation,” Kane said, dipping his head in respect. Bellamy caught Clarke’s eye and swore she was about to laugh at the unfamiliar cadence in Kane’s voice.

Bellamy bent down, breaking his eyes contact with Clarke, and placed his shoulder under the now-weakened Azgeda attacker’s arm. Monty moved to the man’s opposite side, hauling him to his feet. He grunted loudly as they adjusted him, jostling his shoulder in the process. He didn’t resist, however, as they began to shuffle him towards the shack, trailing behind the others.

When they reached the entrance, Bellamy motioned for Kane to grab the man and reached a hand out to stop Clarke. “I need to talk to you.”

Before Clarke could respond, Niylah turned to Kane and Monty. “I’ll pour you a drink while they talk.” Niylah gave Clarke a knowing look from where she held the door open, shuffling Kane, Monty, and their prisoner inside. Clarke’s responding look felt like a spear to the chest. He had once been able to decipher all of the small expressions that flitted across her face. Now, he had no clue what was going through her mind and it only served to stoke that latent grief that had been building inside of him since she left.

The door thudded closed.

A heavy silence descended over them.

“I’m not coming back,” Clarke said, breaking the silence.

“You almost got taken by an Azgeda bounty hunter.” Bellamy detested the pleading edge in his tone; he wanted the words to come out mocking, to make her realize how absurd she sounded. Instead, he sounded desperate.

“But I didn’t.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but when Bellamy glanced down at her ever-steady hands, he noticed a soft tremble. A small grin played at his lips and her eyes flared with anger, mouth setting into a tight line. Clarke shoved her hands in her pocket. “Adrenaline,” she said, tone snippy and ready for a fight.

Bellamy nodded slowly, the grin still on his face as he slowly repeated, “Adrenaline.”

Her entire face had contorted at the mocking tone and, for a second, he thought she might hit him. His heart sped up, hammering so hard he could feel his blood rushing. He didn’t relish her anger, but it was so good to see her alive that he couldn’t help leaning into it, drinking it in.

Her face closed off when Bellamy didn’t back off and she whispered, “I bear it so they don’t have to.” The crack in her voice told him that it was a line she had rehearsed, but not fully internalized. He wanted to reach out and offer reassurance, but he couldn’t make himself. Those were Wallace’s words; they were the words of a man who spent his life torturing and killing thousands of innocents, turning them into blood bags and Reapers. What he and Clarke did would never be the same. Bellamy had to believe it would never be the same. If he didn’t believe that, he wasn’t sure he could wake up every morning and face their people, face Trikru warriors as allies and Azgeda warriors as enemies.

“You don’t bear anything, Wanheda.” The words were rough and aggressive and not the ones he had spent months practicing. They weren’t words meant to coax her home; they were angry and truthful words he wished he had said before she left. They had run through his head, echoing when he couldn’t sleep, but he had never intended to voice them.

“I killed over three hundred innocent people,” Clarke said. “And the problem is, I would do it again if it saved our people.”

Bellamy would too. He knew, deep down, that he would pull that lever every day for the rest of his life if it kept his people alive. “I’ve been the one bearing it,” Bellamy said, trying to add that matter-of-fact air that Clarke so often put on to hide her real feelings. “I’ve watched Jasper suffer every minute of every day because we killed Maya. You’ve been here.” He gestured to the trading post and the small structure standing in front of them. He felt his anger deflating, replaced by something softer and more malleable. “Come home.” Those were the words he had meant to say. When she didn’t respond, he repeated, “Come home because I can’t keep bearing it alone.”

Clarke’s eyes found Bellamy’s with a silent plea. He shook his head, his own need clear on his face. If only he knew which words would work on this new Clarke; what did Wanheda need to hear? He didn’t know the answer, so he repeated the words that had failed him before. “You offered me forgiveness once,” he said slowly. “I forgive you, Clarke.”

She bit down on her lip and Bellamy could feel the rush of breath as she exhaled. He wondered if maybe she hadn’t changed as much as he feared. If all she needed was forgiveness, Bellamy could offer that every day for the rest of their lives.

“I forgive you,” he repeated. Her shoulders sank and, under the dirt marking her face and the red of her hair, she looked vulnerable. She had spent three months running from her herself, from her people, from a bounty. Bellamy knew the person under this façade well. She wasn’t a legend or a Commander of Death; she was a woman who did what she had to do to protect her people. She was a woman in the wrong place at the right time.

“I don’t think forgiveness is enough,” Clarke said after a long pause.

Bellamy slowly lifted his hand, resting it on her shoulder, fingers pressing against leather, and said, “It has to be.” The bags under her eyes were heavy and dark, so he added, “You’re tired.” She didn’t shrug his hand off this time and she didn’t look away, so he repeated his earlier plea, “Come home.”

Her jaw worked for a second. Bellamy watched the gears turn in her head. “How do you do it?” Clarke asked. Bellamy cocked an eyebrow and waited for an explanation. “You see them every day. How do you do that knowing what we did to save them?”

Bellamy sucked in a rough breath and rubbed his face. He hadn’t talked to anybody about what they did at Mount Weather; everyone knew, but he never talked about the moment the lever clicked into place, about how quickly the Mountain Men died, about watching on the monitors as they exterminated an entire population. He hadn’t talked about the way he and Clarke avoided each other’s eyes in the stretch after they pulled the lever or about what she had said when she left. No one had asked how he coped or if he was coping at all. He had put on a brave face, a Guard jacket, and got to work.

“I live with what we did because it saved them,” he finally said. He glanced at the shack their friends had disappeared inside. “Every time I see Monty’s face,” he said, motioning towards the structure, “I know it was worth it. Every time I see Raven working around camp, I know I did it for her. Every time Harper smiles, I know that I chose to save her life.” Bellamy tried to find the words to summarize three months of healing. “I can live with it because I live with them every day.”

Clarke was silent, but Bellamy felt a jump in his pulse as the last bit of armor fell away, her eyes clearing. Finally, she nodded very slowly and carefully. “I could come home.” The words came out slowly like she was checking them for poison.

“You could come home,” Bellamy repeated, squeezing Clarke’s shoulder. The gesture was as much to ground himself as to reassure Clarke of the truth in his words.

“For my people,” Clarke said as though she still needed to justify her return.

“For our people,” Bellamy amended, a small smile tugging at his lips. He had vowed to bring Clarke home and he could taste victory.

They stood, eyes on one another, for a long moment before Bellamy noticed the quiver of Clarke’s lower lip and the soft wetness gathering at the corner of her eyes. He opened his arms instinctively and she folded herself into them, her own arms wrapping around his waist. “I forgive you,” Bellamy whispered, lips pressing into her hair. An unfamiliar strangled noise tore through Clarke’s throat, her shoulders shaking. Bellamy clung to her tighter and whispered, “You’re home.” When she sniffled, a sound he had never before heard, he felt a part of himself he thought he’d lost at Mount Weather come home, too.


	2. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

Niylah’s shack was small, but the atmosphere was welcoming. Beautiful dyed and painted cloth tapestries hung from the rafters and a dozen small candles immersed the room in a warm glow.

Pleasantries were short-lived, however.

Kane radioed Indra, securing a promise that the prisoner would be retrieved by dawn. She ended the transmission with a hushed reminder that Wanheda shouldn’t be there when they arrived. It was just another reminder to Bellamy that they had averted crisis this time, but it didn’t mean Clarke was safe yet.

Bellamy occupied himself with asking Niylah a series of questions about the traders who passed through and the increasing frequency of Azgeda border crossings. Her responses were short and guarded, eyes darting between him and the prisoner. Nonetheless, he gleaned a few important kernels of information.

Monty, for his part, was whispering animatedly to Clarke as they passed a small cup of tea back and forth.

Bellamy caught himself glancing back at her more often as the night wore on; her smile grew wider and her shoulders set easier, she spoke longer before pauses and a couple of times Bellamy caught her looking at him with something curious filling her eyes. He tried to smile in those moments; he wasn’t sure he achieved the reassuring look he was going for, but she seemed satisfied, turning back each time to her conversation with Monty with a little more vigor.

And so the night went.

They readied to leave a few hours before dawn.

Monty and Kane walked ahead, returning to the rover with the small bundle of trade goods they had purchased. Bellamy thought about following, giving Clarke and her friend a moment alone to say goodbye, but his feet wouldn’t cooperate.

A taunting voice in Bellamy’s head reminded him of how bad he was at protecting those he cared about. His mother had been floated, his sister jailed, and Clarke – Clarke had been broken because he couldn’t do what he had been sent into Mount Weather to do. He couldn’t maintain control of the grounder army and that failure had backed them into a corner.

Glancing at the unconscious face of Clarke’s would-be attacker reinforced Bellamy’s fear; a lot worse could still befall her. It wouldn’t be because Bellamy let his guard down – because he walked away.

So, he crossed his arms over his chest and slipped back into the shadows. It was an attempt to be inconspicuous, to offer them a little faux privacy.

The women grasped each other’s forearms.

“You were going to sneak off on me,” Niylah said, a soft smile playing at her lips.

Clarke’s answering smile was apologetic. “I thought your father might return.”

Niylah made a small noise, equal parts accepting and skeptical. She lifted a finger to the strand of red hair trailing into Clarke’s eyes and gently wound it around her finger, pushing it behind Clarke’s ear.

Bellamy felt like an intruder as he watched the tenderness with which the two women said their goodbyes. Fingers lingered just a little too long; the fire in the trader’s eyes was just a bit too hot and Clarke’s answering gaze a bit too intense as she raked it over the Niylah’s body. The nature of their relationship hadn’t been clear before, but, now, it was hard to ignore the way Clarke’s fingers lingered on Niylah’s forearm, the way her head tilted into Niylah’s touch.

There was a stretch of silence before Niylah leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Clarke’s cheek. “Go home, Clarke.”

* * *

“We have the traitor.” Indra’s voice crackled through the radio. “Prince Roan of Azgeda,” Indra said, disgust marring her tone, “will pay with his life this time.”

“Why did he want Clarke?” Bellamy asked, holding down the button that allowed for long-range transmission.

Indra yelled an order in Trigedasleng, half the words lost to the distance between her mouth and the radio she kept clipped to her bandolier. There was a clatter and a curse echoed through the radio. “He won’t talk,” Indra said. “We’ll see if he breaks in front of the Commander.” Bellamy could envision Indra, crouched over the man, taunting him with the threat. “He was exiled when Azgeda joined the Coalition; it was their price to pay.” The thud of skin meeting flesh was followed by a low groan in the background.

“Was he working for their Queen?” Bellamy asked.

“It’s possible,” Indra said. “Whoever kills Wanheda gets the power of all her kills.” Another harsh clap as skin met flesh echoed through the radio. It was followed by a wet cough. Bellamy winced, the violence curling up in the tight muscles of his shoulders, sending a disconcerting thrill down his spine. “It would explain the scouts,” she finally conceded.

A sound from behind Indra, someone calling an all-clear in Trigedasleng, signaled the end of her transmission.

“She’ll radio back and we’ll get more answers,” Kane said from the front of the vehicle. Monty was seated to his right.

Prince Roan.

Bellamy turned the name over in his head, testing its weight, its importance.

He had been right in his assessment of the man; he was more than an ordinary bounty hunter. The details were still fuzzy. Kane was right that they needed to wait for more answers before drawing conclusions, but it didn’t stop Bellamy’s imagination from painting a vivid picture.

This was, at least to a degree, a political move and Clarke was one of the pawns.

A knot formed in Bellamy’s stomach and he glanced sideways at the woman sitting to his right. She was clutching the door of the vehicle so tight her knuckles had turned white. Bellamy curled his own fingers tighter around the gun slung over his lap at the thought of Clarke with a knife to her neck, tied up, being dragged behind an exiled Azgeda prince.

They hit a rough patch of rocks and the rover shook, rocking from side to side.

Clarke blanched, face going white.

Bellamy reached out a hand and rested it tentatively on her shoulder. “It gets easier with time.” She looked up at him with wide and unsteady eyes, lips pulled down at the corners. She leaned into the hand on her shoulder. “It’s also easier when Monty’s not the one driving,” Bellamy whispered, leaning into Clarke and flashing her a grin. Her face remained white and her eyes wide, but the corners of her lips tilted up in a ghost of a smile.

“I’m learning here,” Monty piped up, car jostling violently again as it hit a protruding tree root. “In the Earth Skills simulations, there were always roads.”

A small bark of laughter escaped Clarke’s mouth.

Something that had knotted up inside of him unwound a little bit as he listened to the banter flowing now, carried by Monty and aided by Kane. He let himself remain silent, grounded by the point of physical connection with Clarke.

His thoughts wandered – giving in to a world of possibilities and desire.

He wanted to show her everything they had built in her absence; he wanted to show her that redemption and forgiveness and progress were all possible on the ground. He wanted her to see that she could be happy in Arkadia even if his own happiness was often a fickle and fleeting beast.

Then, when he was sure she understood, he wanted to reassure her that they made the right decision at Mount Weather.

* * *

It was almost midday when they entered the settlement, driving under a metal sign emblazoned with the word ARKADIA. On either side of the rover rose tall walls made of an assemblage of salvaged metal and wood. Inside, new structures, constructed from the cannibalized remains of Mecha Station, dotted the packed dirt spiraling inwards towards Alpha Station.

There was a moment of confusion followed by a flurry of activity.

Bellamy blended into the background as Clarke reunited, first, with her mother and, then, her friends. There were hugs and tears from those who greeted Clarke, but, Bellamy noticed, this time her eyes remained dry.

He also noticed his sister watching from a tree just outside the walls; she glared at him but didn’t move when he cocked his head at her. Part of him wanted to remind her that traveling outside Arkadia without permission was expressly forbidden. Another part of him knew that he was talking to a wall; Octavia was obstinate and had only grown more oppositional as her confidence grew. He breathed a sigh of relief when Lincoln ducked around the edge of Alpha Station and Octavia disappeared from view a few seconds later.

He cursed himself as the day wore on, the noon heat morphing into the sticky humidity of late afternoon.

Stuck in Clarke’s orbit, he had glared at everyone who approached him, and, at some point, people had stopped trying.

They continued to flock to Clarke, however, and he continued to watch from a respectable distance. She looked back a couple of times, brows pulling together until she spotted him leaning against a wall or sitting on a stoop. Her face smoothed out when they made eye contact and she returned to whatever conversation she had fallen into. If it weren’t for the look of relief on her face when she caught sight of him, he might have convinced himself to leave her alone.

It was easy, though, to convince himself that she needed him as much as he needed her.

So, he stayed, still cursing himself for shirking his responsibilities, but, this time, with a little less vigor.

He stopped cursing himself when the sun began to dip lower and a cool breeze picked up.

Clarke had been talking to Harper, heads bowed together in serious conversation and Bellamy had taken the opportunity to pretend to get a little work done. Breaking down his gun was a methodical task, but he could do it with his eyes closed; he pulled the Ark-issue pistol apart piece by piece and rebuilt it sitting on the edge of a wooden deck outside one of the newly-built shelters. Metal rusted fast in the late January humidity around Arkadia and anyone watching would assume he was just being attentive. Fastidiousness was a virtue with such a limited weapon supply.

In truth, he barely looked at the bits of metal, moving his hands fast, watching for Clarke to move on.

He looked down to slide the gun back into his waistband when he heard Harper quip, “Best Guard.” Her laughter was soft and good-natured. “Yeah, right.”

Bellamy’s head jerked up. Harper was standing beside him now; he hadn’t heard her approach. He was simultaneously upset at his own distraction and excited by how much her stealth had improved during her lessons with Lincoln.

He scanned the area and spotted Clarke. She was approaching the entrance to Alpha Station. Kane stood at the bottom of the walkway with a contemplative look on his face, arms crossed over his chest.

Her shoulders dipped lower, the tension in her back prominent, feet scuffing up a small cloud of dirt with each step she took closer.

Bellamy pulled himself up and was about to make an excuse, but Harper was already motioning for him to go, amusement playing across her features.

He closed the gap in record time, not particularly caring anymore if everyone saw him following Clarke like a lost child.

“I need to debrief you,” Kane said. “We need a more comprehensive image of what happened out there.”

“Clarke should rest.” The words were rolling out of his mouth before he could catch them. He immediately turned his attention to Clarke, aware that he might have overstepped in speaking for her.

Some of the tension in her back loosened, though, and she nodded in agreement.

Up close, she looked out of it, eyes spaced out and jaw slack. A deep desire to protect Clarke had taken root in his chest when they were reunited and the exhaustion flowing off her in waves pushed the roots deeper. He was increasingly certain that prying them out would involve excavating his own heart.

Kane watched Clarke for a moment before his face softened. “First thing in the morning. You’ve covered a lot of territory. Your insights may prove valuable.”

Valuable, Bellamy thought. He wanted to laugh at that; Clarke may have been living out there, but he had spent every day for three months in the same woods as her and they had never crossed paths. The ground was vast and, no matter how much territory she covered, she would have kept her head down. Bellamy knew Clarke’s survival instinct as well as he knew his own. If she did see anything, it would be so compartmentalized that pushing her to recollect it would be a waste of everyone’s time.

“I’m going to bed,” Clarke said as though that was all the agreement she could offer. She looked up at Bellamy; the soft and vulnerable look in her eyes made his chest ache and his stomach drop. She opened her mouth, then closed it before something steely filled her eyes and she asked, “Walk with me?”

Bellamy was nodding before she finished speaking.

Clarke stopped halfway to her old room and looked around, head tilting towards the ceiling, fingers running over metal panels and tracing bolts. “I never thought I’d be back here,” she said, eyes still roving the walls like she was looking for some familiar imperfection. “When I was arrested,” her voice dropped in volume, “I thought I would be lucky if I got to see the station one last time before I was floated.” Bellamy winced at the reminder that Clarke had been so close to meeting the same fate as his mother. “When I left after Mount Weather…” Clarke trailed off. “You don’t get lucky twice.” She shrugged. Bellamy didn’t know what to say, but her expression had already morphed into something akin to appreciation. “Thank you for taking care of them.”

Bellamy shook his head, ready to disavow any credit for their safety when Clarke placed a hand on his forearm. It stilled the words in his throat.

“I’d almost think you weren’t Bellamy Blake at all,” she quipped, “if you didn’t take some credit.”

He straightened his shoulders and offered the practiced, cocky grin he had learned in the Guard, the one he had worn as a shield in the early days on the ground. “I thought humble might be a good look, but I’ll take the credit if you demand it, Princess.” The nickname was out before he could catch it. The surprise on her face told Bellamy he had crossed a line, fallen too quickly back into familiar banter.

He expected an admonition or, maybe, for her to walk away. Instead, she said, “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that.” The fingers on his forearm squeezed as though remembering she was touching him. “I think I prefer it to Wanheda.” There was a joking nature to her tone.

“I missed you.” It was a selfish admission and Bellamy’s only point of pride was that it came out in a nonchalant tone. He knew he should keep up the superficial banter; he should put Clarke at ease and make sure she was confident in her choice to come home. She had left because it was too hard to stay; she didn’t need him making it harder now.

Clarke seemed to consider the words, head tilting side to side before she said, “I missed you, too.” There was genuine pain in her voice.

The emotion behind those words hit him like a well-aimed punch to the gut.

There was a moment where their eyes met and some unspoken vulnerability hovered between them.

Just as quickly, Clarke’s fingers dropped from his arm and she said, “Let’s go,” continuing down the hallway at a faster pace. Bellamy trailed after her, eyes fixating on those long red braids as they swished from side to side across her back.

Bellamy hesitated in the doorway when they reached her room. He should have said goodbye and walked away. He knew that deep down.

Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching Clarke step inside.

She took in the details slowly; it hadn’t changed much since she left. The bed was made with the corners tucked just so and her extra pair of boots were still sitting on the trunk at the end of her bed. Her sketchbook was propped up on the small desk and a fresh set of clothes were laid out. That last addition, Bellamy was sure, was courtesy of Chancellor Griffin.

Clarke approached the desk, depositing the pack she now kept her life in on the small bed. Her fingers were tentative as she wrapped them around the old sketchbook. Bellamy wondered if she had a new one, if she had found some solace in sketching as she told him she once had in the Skybox. She picked the book up and thumbed open the cover; from the door, Bellamy could see only a small bit of the charcoal etching but recognized it immediately. It was a view of the dropship from the front gates of their camp; the details were lost to distance, but Bellamy could fill them in from memory.

He wondered momentarily if he should slip away and leave Clarke to piece together what being home meant.

He shifted, working up the nerve to leave. His booted feet shuffled and his jacket made a soft swishing noise.

Clarke jerked a little and took a shaky breath. He noted the reaction; three months on the run had left her looking over her shoulder – a little more jumpy than the Clarke who left. She glanced at him over her shoulder as though remembering he was there and said, “You were right.” She still looked exhausted, but some fire had returned to her eyes.

Bellamy cocked his head to the side. “I’m normally right.” The words felt clunky; they were words he might have spoken when they first landed on the ground, when the likelihood he would live another day was directly tied to using the charismatic veneer he had honed on the Ark to convince a bunch of delinquents that he should be their leader. Clarke shook her head and the roll of her eyes told him that even though the words were a little off, they were familiar in a good way. “What am I right about this time?”

Clarke looked back at the sketchbook and traced her fingers lightly over the charcoal drawing before sighing heavily. “Seeing them makes it easier.”

Bellamy didn’t know what response he had expected, but this one held all the reassurances he could ever have wished for. He knew, without a doubt, that Clarke returning was for the best; he couldn’t protect her if she wasn’t around to protect. He had, however, doubted – when he caught the guilt and sadness on her face as she performed politics with their people – that this was the best way for her to come to terms with what they had done.

He couldn’t find the words to express any of that, however, so he settled for a slow nod. “Seeing you made it easier for them.”

He caught the way Clarke’s hand faltered, sketchbook dipping, as though she wasn’t sure she believed him, but she didn’t offer a rebuttal – just let exhausted eyes trail from Bellamy to her bed.

“You should sleep,” Bellamy said, offering her an easy withdrawal from the conversation.

Clarke’s expression was tinged with amusement and longing as she took in the fur blanket draped over the Ark-issued sheets. “I haven’t slept in a bed in months.”

A thousand questions filled Bellamy’s head. He wanted to know every detail of her time away. Not just the ones Kane would fish for in the morning, but the mundane stuff, too. He had already been too selfish, though, so, instead of giving in, he dipped his head and repeated, “You should sleep.”

Pushing off the doorframe was as difficult as ripping the moon out of rotation around the Earth. This time, though, he turned and walked away before Clarke could do or say something that might draw him back in. He could already feel the tides altering irreversibly as he put distance between them.

 _She needs sleep; she’ll be there in the morning; she’s home, she’s safe, she’s home._ Bellamy repeated these affirmations to himself – only half-believing them – all the way back to the gunshed where he settled in to finally get some work done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos or bookmarked this fic. It has been such an enjoyable thing to be back producing content in this fandom after such a long hiatus and it's all because of you!
> 
> As to updates, for now, I'm going to aim for Monday, Wednesday, Friday updates. As I mentioned earlier, the fic is complete, but spacing it out gives me a chance to do one final cursory glance before posting.
> 
> Also! You can look forward to some chapters from Clarke's POV very soon.


	3. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

On the Ark, Jake Griffin had accrued a sizable collection of television procedurals – the type of show where every week a group of dedicated and quirky detectives solve a new crime, the type where everything gets wrapped up nicely at the end and no one who matters dies. Every Monday night for years, he and Clarke had sat down in their living room and watched a single episode – that was how they used to be watched, according to Jake.

Now, sitting in the dim, makeshift debriefing chamber opposite of Kane, Clarke felt like a suspect on one of those shows. The detective – Kane – asked questions, jotting down all the details in the small, leather-bound notebook propped in his lap. Two hours had passed and, if it were one of her father’s shows, now would be the time to give a tearful confession full of unexpected drama.

This wasn’t a show, though, and those days on the Ark were long gone – just like Jake Griffin.

The truth was mundane at best. Clarke had nothing groundbreaking to reveal. She had spent three months surviving off the land and the extra bits Niylah had slipped into her pack, replaying Mount Weather over and over, trying to construct an alternative series of events. Sure, she had learned to take down a panther with only a small blade and how to disguise herself with mud and algae, but she had kept her head down. She had nothing of political significance to offer and it sent her mind into autopilot, answering Kane’s questions with shorter and more terse replies as the debriefing dragged on into late morning.

She had picked up some useful information about Arkadia’s situation, however, and that was what kept her in her seat, kept her from pacing or excusing herself even as tendrils of claustrophobic anxiety threatened to lash out.

Simply put, Skaikru was in limbo.

The glaring problems with the agreement were obvious to Clarke and it frustrated her that her mother and Kane and Bellamy had done little to remedy these issues.

The first tentative moments of peace their people had secured on the ground could be stolen as quickly as acid fog had once rolled in. There was nothing stopping the encroaching Azgeda forces, the still-angry Trikru villages, or the fickle Commander, from exterminating them as they had exterminated the Mountain Men.

Kane was droning on about the grounder capital, Polis, as though he might trigger some memory, some revelation that she had actually spent time there. Clarke let her mind wander, a vague idea starting to formulate, a tiny kernel of a plan to secure real and lasting peace for her people.

She placed it aside, neatly folding it and storing it away for further thought when Kane snapped his notebook shut. She had ignored much of what he said during the last minutes of their meeting, but tuned back in to him offering an excuse-riddled _goodbye_ , a tense smile that didn’t reach his eyes giving away the disappointment flowing below the surface. She hadn’t provided any useful information, but she would make up for that soon enough.

A rushed farewell fell past Clarke’s lips as she pushed her chair out, the loud scraping noise sending a chill down her spine.

Her legs carried her through the memorized corridors at a harried speed. The claustrophobia, the anxiety, she had carefully been tamping down and ignoring lashed out now, menacing and deadly.

She needed to get outside.

Memories of running the corridors of Mount Weather with Anya, holding a bit of broken glass to Maya’s neck as leverage, of evading capture again and again, and failing to evade capture, wrapped around Clarke’s throat like a hand threatening to suffocate her.

Her breathing became shallow and strained and her pace kicked up another notch.

The corridors were empty. It was both a blessing and a curse; a blessing because her pride could remain intact. A curse because the lack of bodies made it impossible to forget the empty corridors of Mount Weather – abandoned with no signs of human life.

Rounding the last corner, Clarke’s felt her vision going blurry at the edges, a sharp and piercing pain like a stab wound to the heart.

The first ragged gulp of real and clean air was like a gulp of cold water after days hiding. She grasped the metal frame to steady herself, legs shaky. The hand around her throat loosened with each passing second until she was inhaling and exhaling at a steady rate.

No longer in the throes of a physiological cascade, a sense of weakness, of uncertainty and confusion swept through Clarke, replacing the sheer panic of the previous minutes with a sweaty and sick shame.

Her eyes swept the settlement sprawling outwards from the station. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for until she saw him.

Bellamy was kneeling in a patch of limp, brown grass. His back was to her, but she could see the boy standing opposite of him. The boy, probably not older than eight, stared at Bellamy with wide eyes. The edge of fear in them served as a painful reminder of what the Guard had been like on the Ark; how much trauma they had inflicted. What bad experience had made him uneasy with his current proximity to Bellamy of all people?

She watched Bellamy shift forward on the balls of his feet and a compact yellow ball appeared in his hand. He pointed at the child who took a few steps back. Once the boy’s feet were planted, Bellamy popped up to his own, winding up like the pitchers in the old baseball games she and her father watched with Wells and Jaha. He released the ball, arm pointing straight at the boy, hips shifting in an exaggerated pitcher’s stance; Clarke could tell that he held back, but she wasn’t sure the child knew, or cared, as he caught the ball with a triumphant yell.

Clarke’s heart squeezed when the fear in his eyes melted into a broad, toothy grin. She could easily construct an image of the matching expression on Bellamy’s face; it would be casual and easy and glad to provide a child with a little bit of respite from the fear that he had never been able to escape.

Clarke knew this because he was her best friend; he had fallen into that position at some point during their shared leadership. He questioned her and pushed her to do better; he was honest with her when she screwed up and his forgiveness felt so pure that she almost felt like one day she would be able to forgive herself.

He was as much the reason she ran as what she did at Mount Weather. She had sent him into the Mountain on a suicide mission; she had risked his life because Lexa had convinced her that love was weakness and the intimacy that had grown between them had felt dangerously close to that forbidden emotion.

Staring at Bellamy’s back, she thought that Lexa might have been right – maybe, the thesis was correct and only her execution had been flawed.

Roan could have killed him the previous night. That truth settled like lead in her stomach. She tried to compartmentalize it, tried to push it down and lock it up, but the weight remained even as her thoughts wandered elsewhere.

The kid ran back to his friends and pointed at Bellamy over his shoulder. The other kids’ watched Bellamy with a guarded wariness, his gun slung across his back, Guard jacket hanging open to reveal the knives on his belt.

Clarke wondered what legends they had created around him, remembering how she and Wells had spun stories as children about the Guards, taking a small bit of information gleaned from their parents and turning it into an epic they could tell their classmates.

Following Bellamy with her eyes as he disengaged, a little bit of the lead in her stomach finally gave way. She could already see the way she would draw the confident strides he took across camp, strong legs carrying him with ease, shoulders poised, eyes alert.

He stopped in front of a small water station. Guards were crowded around it. They greeted him with warm familiarity. The hint of respect in their straightened posture, however, was telling.

The easy confidence of Bellamy’s posture and the relaxed expression on his face as he laughed at a joke, tilting his head back, was fascinating to watch. He was still the man she knew, but he had come into his own so fully that Clarke’s entire body was seized by a dizzying mixture of pride and grief. She tried to push it back, lock it all back up in one of the compartments she had constructed inside of herself to hide away the overwhelming pain and loss of the previous years.

Resolve was easier to come by once the swirl of emotion had been secreted away. She wouldn’t regret her decision to leave. It had been the right choice just as returning needed to be the right choice now.

She watched as he reached out a hand, accepting a canteen of water. Studying the way his fingers wrapped around the container, Clarke was reminded of how much she had once struggled to transfer his hands to paper; they had always been calloused, but, now, they were crossed with light scars that stood out against the warm tan of his skin. They were hands equally comfortable nurturing and providing solace as fighting and killing; they were so Bellamy that Clarke sometimes found herself certain that if she could capture them in her drawings, she could capture a bit of his soul.

The thought so fully enraptured her that it took her a moment to notice Bellamy staring back at her, one brow raised.

He set the canteen down when she noticed him and pointed towards a small bit of shaded space around the corner of Alpha Station. Her cheeks flamed at having been caught and she considered a dozen excuses before she noticed Bellamy had already rounded the corner, disappearing out of sight.

It was stupid, she grumbled to herself as she trudged around the corner to follow him, to feel any embarrassment around him after everything they had gone through together. But she did.

A pit of embarrassment in her stomach opened wide as she rounded the corner. Her eyes dropped to his hands. One was on the wall he was leaning against and the other lazily rested on the hilt of the knife at his waist as though drawing comfort from its presence. On the ground, Clarke supposed, it was a special kind of comfort.

He looked the picture of ease. The small bit of energy in his eyes was the only indication he hadn’t been standing there all day waiting for someone to happen upon him and strike up a conversation.

“When did you finish with Kane?” The question came out in a lazy drawl, but Clarke could see the genuine curiosity under the veneer.

“It hasn’t been long.” It had been longer than she was letting on, but she didn’t want to give him too much of an upper hand. Something instinctual in Clarke warned her against getting too comfortable; she had in the past and it made her complacent and pliable – it had made her easy to deceive and betray and, even though she knew Bellamy would never betray her, a cynical voice told her to tread with caution.

“I wanted to be there when you were done.” He rubbed the back of his neck and Clarke saw a little of the soft Bellamy he kept tamped down in his day to day life peeking out.

“Don’t worry about it.” In truth, she was glad he hadn’t been there to see her fall apart, to see the fear wrap around her throat and claw at her chest. “It’s all different, isn’t it?”

Bellamy seemed to mull over the question; it was a pause he might not have taken in the past and Clarke felt the box holding grief and longing rattle inside of her, begging to be freed. Finally, he shook his head, pushing off the wall and stepping towards her. He towered over her. “Not all of it.”

Breathing became more difficult and she had to look away from the intensity of his gaze. Drawing in a rough, too-fast breath, Clarke fixed her eyes on the Guard patch on Bellamy’s jacket. “It’s okay if it is,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure either of them was talking about the camp anymore. The cynical voice she had been listening to more and more often was screaming at her to stop before she said something she couldn’t reel back in, something which gave her away and made her vulnerable.

The silence stretched on for a long moment.

Clarke couldn’t force herself to look up or speak. She wanted to tell him she was busy and needed to go. She wanted to avoid him and fall fully into her work. That was where she thrived after all.

She didn’t have work to fall into, though, so she focused on committing the fall of his jacket to memory, the way it stretched just a bit over his shoulders – broader than when they first landed on the ground – and tapered near his waist.

“If it is,” Bellamy said, shoulders shrugging in a jerky motion, “we’ll deal with it.” His fingers reached out slowly, giving her time to step away. She didn’t. He grasped one of the red braids hanging around her shoulder between his thumb and forefinger. Clarke watched, ready to tug away if she felt her shields crumbling, as he rubbed it between his fingers, the color slowly giving way to the blonde hair underneath. “Are you going to keep it?”

The question would have felt like a diversion coming from anyone else. He hadn’t really changed the subject, though. They were playing the same game they always had – feeling each other out as they had in the early days on the ground.

The truth was, Clarke hated her hair like this. The algae stung when applied too close to her scalp and the red clay left her head itchy. The braids were matted and caused a near-constant tension headache.

Clarke glanced up from Bellamy’s fingers to his face. His eyes were scrutinizing and his face was serious. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

It had been implied, but the ferocity in Bellamy’s tone made the message sink deeper into her bones. It was slowly becoming a truth Clarke didn’t know how to rebut, so she nodded, biting down on her lip to avoid agreeing. She wasn’t ready to give up this piece of armor just yet, but she was starting to see a world where that was possible and it felt good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... Clarke POV!


	4. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

Bellamy squinted into the rising sun, scanning the Azgeda tree line for movement. It was an easy task – not fully engaging – but its importance was obvious.

Since Clarke’s return the previous week, since they had captured Prince Roan of Azgeda, Bellamy had spent an increasing amount of time in the field with Indra and her Trikru scouts. He had been leaving in the pitch-black morning before the sun rose and returning as it plunged below the horizon, tinting the sky a dusty pink.

Details of Roan’s capture, and subsequent punishment, had been kept vague; asking sly questions and making insinuative statements had only garnered glares from the Trikru scouts he rode alongside. He had stopped asking when the frustration of being evaded started to wear at his patience.

He had tried to force himself to stop thinking about it altogether – that part was more difficult.

They hadn’t spotted any more trespassers in the interceding days, but it didn’t put Bellamy’s nerves at ease. Instead, it left him wondering if news of Clarke’s return to Arkadia had spread across the twelve clans, if Azgeda was planning something new while he was here, in Eden’s Pass, watching the border.

Giving in to the speculation for only a second sent Bellamy’s mind racing to connect dots and make predictions. They weren’t the kind of carefully considered predictions used in battle or diplomacy; these were miserable w _hat-ifs_.

He had only seen Clarke in passing at dinner and in the few minutes they had stolen from time to time in the early morning when he caught her wandering outside, staring at the sky like she thought it might open up and swallow them.

He had been so set on bringing her back to Arkadia where she would be safe under watchful eyes that he had ignored the possible dangers of that decision. Now, he wondered if corralling her inside their small settlement had actually made her an easier target.

It was a sickness, Bellamy told himself, rubbing his face roughly in an attempt to push away the intrusive worry that had knitted into the core of his being. He rubbed calloused fingers over the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, exhaling in a too-loud _whoosh._

A flicker of movement in the trees, at the edge of the Azgeda border, snapped Bellamy to attention.

An untrained eye wouldn’t have noticed the way the birds lifted out of the low trees, the way the leaves fluttered in the opposite direction of the wind for just a moment. But Bellamy had spent months training, months swearing not to make the same naïve mistakes they made in the early days. The sheen of cold sweat that chilled the back of his neck told him something was coming.

He ghosted his fingers over the radio strapped to his hip, ready to click the button that would alert Indra and her scouts on the ground. He waited, watching as, first, one figure emerged then another and another until a small force was marching confidently in the direction of Potomc, a small Trikru village Bellamy had visited just that morning.

His heart sped up, fingers itching to lift his gun and thwart the threat himself. It wasn’t protocol, but Bellamy didn’t think Indra would particularly mind. The only thing that stopped him was the second group, emerging behind the first – if he fired at either group, the others would fall back, and they would lose the element of surprise.

Gritting his teeth, he clicked out a short code and held his breath.

He watched the force march for a long and tense moment before Indra clicked back.

The radio hissed then and Indra’s voice was fast as she spoke. “Meet us at Potomc. Be ready for a fight.” The sound of war was in her voice, deep and rich and daring to be crossed; it was the sound of a woman who didn’t shy away from her kills, a woman who wore them engraved across her body and would, no doubt, rejoice in adding more.

By the time the radio fell silent, Bellamy was already climbing down the tree, feet moving as silently as possible through the forest underbrush. He couldn’t see the trespassers any longer, but he kept low to the ground shrouded by the thick green underbrush in case they were watching the tree line.

The trees thinned eventually. A thin corpse of a river snaked through the valley between the thick forest on either side. Packed earth, dark yellow, gave way to grey silt.

The trees thinned more, spaced out with less underbrush here. He’d have to make a break for the cliffs ahead if he was going to get to the village in time. It went against everything Bellamy had learned, every instinct, but he thought, unbidden, of Clarke, of how she had rushed to save Jasper in what felt like a different lifetime. The thought put some steel in his spine and he shouldered his gun.

Eyes scanning the opposite tree line for movement, Bellamy bolted into the open, zagging his path.

He was still unused to keeping speed in sand and by the time he reached the cascading cliffs, he was breathing heavy, legs aching. He hadn’t been shot, though. That was a good indication that either they didn’t have archers or he had beat them there.

Tossing one leg over, he climbed down, dropping from one cliff to the next. The longest drop between ledges was only a foot or so taller than him, so he moved with a fast confidence that a stray footing would be less detrimental than spending an extra second exposed on the rock facing.

Dropping from the last cliff, he turned.

That morning, the village had been bustling with preparations for the day. Laundry had been hung out to dry and large trays of berries laid out glistening with the water they had been washed in. The children had been gathered around an older woman in the center of the village. She sat cross-legged on a stump, the children crowded on the ground. Her voice was soft and booming all at once as she wove her story. Bellamy had stopped for just a second even though he couldn’t understand the words she was speaking. Something he had hidden away peeked out; a thirst for knowledge, for stories of long-ago. Indra had clucked her tongue, muttering about wasting good talent on trivial knowledge and Bellamy had forced himself to walk away. The last he saw of the woman was her knowing smile, as though she could see right through all his layers to the soft and yearning core.

Now, the village was empty.

Worst-case scenarios played through Bellamy’s head as he catalogued the details, but none seemed fit. There were no fires, no bodies, no blood – he had beat the Azgeda attackers, so where was everybody?

He got an answer sooner than he wished.

A small child’s head poked around the edge of the smokehouse and, before Bellamy could register what was happening, he toddled out from behind the structure. The child wobbled but made good time on a direct course for the trays of berries still sitting near the center of the village.

A woman called out; voice muffled by the wooden structure she was hiding behind. Her head appeared in much the same way as the child’s, except she didn’t spare Bellamy a glance. She darted towards the child, braids smacking her back with a repetitive _thump_.

Bellamy heard the clicking at his waist – Indra’s archers were in position and she was cutting off the second group – at the same time he saw the arrow flying through the air. It missed the toddler, soaring over his head. The cry of warning choked off in Bellamy’s throat as the arrow lodged in the woman’s chest.

The vicious sound of bone cracking was the only sound in the silence. She wobbled for a long second before a gurgling noise reached Bellamy’s ears and her body fell forward.

The child toddled back with wide eyes, pushing on her shoulder.

Bellamy hissed out a rough breath of air, glancing over his shoulder. The arrow had come from the top of the cliffs.

Timing was everything now.

Setting his jaw, Bellamy ran for the child.

Arrows rained down around him, but they weren’t aiming at the child, immobile and confused, anymore – he was the target and that was good. He could control that, he told himself.

Bellamy scooped the toddler up, hunching his shoulders around the small boy, zig-zagging back to the smokehouse where a group of young grounders, all children, were huddled with fearful and wide eyes. One stepped forward, tying her straw-colored hair in a bit of leather; defiance sparkled there. She couldn’t have been older than twelve, but she held her arms out expectantly.

Bellamy glanced down at the child in his arms, round-faced and squirming. He tried to pass the child off, but the kid had a good grip on his jacket. The girl reached forward, loosening his fingers and pulling the baby to her chest protectively, angling away from Bellamy as though he had been the one to lure the child into the open.

No longer in possession of another life, Bellamy pulled his gun back to the front. A flash of fear passed through the eyes of the grounder children, but he didn’t have time to deal with that. His radio hissed and Indra said, “We’re circling them. Protect the children.”

Bellamy grunted agreement, looking down his iron sights. He had watched close to twenty Azgeda warriors slip through the tree line. Scanning the cliff, Bellamy quickly accounted for four of them. He could see their bows, but they kept their bodies back so he couldn’t line up a good shot. Surveying the trees on either side, he accounted for four more, two on either side. That left an unknown number either currently fighting in the riverbed or sneaking up from behind.

Bellamy clicked the button on his radio and reported the locations he had determined.

Lining up the first shot was easy. Bellamy squeezed the trigger, the sound and kickback of the rifle drawing a muffled gasp from the children. He didn’t let it distract him and swung the gun west, lining up the other sniper in his sights. He pulled the trigger again and watched as the round ripped through the man’s stomach sending him falling from the tree. Bellamy couldn’t hear the sound of his body landing but could imagine the sickening crunch of bones shattering.

He shook his head. There were rules in battle, he had learned, and thinking about those you killed never helped. Instead, he glanced at the woman laying sprawled in the center of the village, a pool of blood soaking into the sand around her body, marking it a dark and deep red. It helped stoke the rage that Bellamy needed to continue looking down his sights, trying to locate the two missing men.

A crack sounded like the sound of leather to flesh.

Bellamy whirled.

A man and a woman approached; they were shrouded in Azgeda furs but lacked the intricate masks many of their people wore, opting to show off their scars and warpaint. In front of them, long blades pressed to either side of her ribs, was a child. Elaborate braids crowned her head woven through with gears; she bared her teeth at her attackers, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. She couldn’t be older than eight – the same age as the kid with the ball back at Arkadia.

“Put your gun down, Sky Boy,” the man ordered, poking the girl when she stopped walking.

The girl beside Bellamy, the one who had insisted on holding the toddler gasped. “Strik sis,” she whispered. _Little sister_. That added a variable Bellamy wasn’t happy to navigate.

Bellamy kept his gun shouldered, trained on the man who spoke. “Hod up.” _Wait._ His Trigedasleng was rocky at best; he had picked up some important phrases, but not enough to communicate what he wanted to say. He wanted to make it clear that her sister’s survival was reliant on playing this carefully and that she needed to stay back because emotions would just get in the way. “Bak op.” _Stay back._ She made a strangled noise of protest but didn’t move.

Bellamy ghosted a hand over the radio, clicking out a short pattern. He lowered his gun, then, sliding the strap over his head, propping it up against the smokehouse wall.

The scouts shifted forward, weapons pressing tighter against the girl as Bellamy took a step forward. He needed to put distance between himself and the other children in case things went sideways.

Shuffling behind Bellamy drew his attention. He knew the older sister was shifting forward with him, mirroring his movements – it complicated things.

He hissed, “Yu wich op ai.” _Trust me._ She wouldn’t, he knew, but it might give him some time to deescalate things before she could get herself killed.

“Come,” the masked woman ordered. “Kneel before Azgeda and we spare the girl. Swear Skaikru into fealty.” The words rattled around Bellamy’s brain. He tried to make sense of them; did they know he would be the one to intercept them? Or was his presence just icing on their metaphorical cake?

The woman sighed – a bored noise – and twisted her wrist, pressing the blade into the girl’s side and dragging down. The girl cried out as it bit deeper the farther down it traveled, gouging into her hip. Bellamy was running forward before he could remember all of Lincoln’s lessons about patience and controlled aggression.

He tackled the woman, grabbing her wrist in one of his hands. There was a struggle, each trying to gain control of the bloodied weapon. It was a stalemate, would give her partner too much time to make his move, so Bellamy heaved forward with the entirety of his weight, pushing the knife out of her hand, sending it flying across the sand.

Fewer weapons, this time, Bellamy thought, might actually be better.

They grappled for control. She was strong, but he had both height and weight on her.

That small advantage was taken away, however, by his split attention as he tracked the other Azgeda attacker’s movements. His movements were curious. He wasn’t attacking the children or rescuing his partner; he was meticulously forming pyres around the edge of the village.

Searing pain filled Bellamy’s abdomen. His leg spasmed.

Only a second of distraction had allowed the woman to nick his knife from his pocket and bury it just above his right hipbone. He gritted his teeth, knife still embedded, shifting dangerously, eviscerating muscle. He brought his fist down hard. There was a crack as he brought his fist down again, her jaw warping, and another as her nose crumpled.

Things went blank after that.

When he finally stood up, she was unmoving, face covered in blood and unrecognizable.

He glanced down at the stab wound; only a small amount of blood seeped around the knife. Clarke would tell him to leave the knife in or to find some way to break off the bit of blade inside him. Imagining how mad she would be at him for wrenching it out now did something to ease Bellamy’s nerves as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He took a deep breath and pulled it out in a single motion. His breathing was a little ragged and the blood poured faster now.

Clutching the knife tight, Bellamy found the still-alive attacker. He needed to deal with this fast, he knew, looking down at the growing stain on his shirt.

He turned back to the smokehouse looking for his gun.

The older girl was hunched over her sister crying, his gun on her lap clutched in shaky fingers. She had hauled it to her sister to protect her, he realized, even though her people believed touching the weapon would bring ruin to their village. He thought of Octavia and knew he would do the same.

Striding quickly to her and kneeling down, Bellamy said, “Ron op ai fayogon.” _Give me my gun._

She nodded, fast and jerky, sliding his gun off her lap without looking up from her sister.

Shouldering it, Bellamy stepped around the smokehouse, hoping Indra’s forced had finished clearing out the archers. He kept his path unpredictable, nonetheless, as he rounded another small building and caught sight of the Azgeda man lighting one of the largest pyres – the village’s grain supply, Bellamy realized.

Lining up the shot was satisfying. Rage over the dead woman, the injured child, and the searing pain radiating through his hip culminated in a surprising steadiness. Dropping a finger to the trigger, Bellamy took a deep breath.

“He’s mine.” Indra rounded from the other side of the building; clothes marked with blood. Not hers, Bellamy noted.

Her sword ran through the man before he could take in what was happening. She kicked him into the fire he had started, a kind of karmic retribution. His eyes were glassy as he fell back, but widened as he was consumed. He writhed, gasps and screams giving way to the sizzle of fat in a too-hot fire.

The smell hit Bellamy.

Bile rose up in his throat and he stumbled backward, suddenly very away of what he had just witnessed.

Indra stalked towards him. “Pressure.” The order was accompanied by her hand thrusting out a cloth.

Bellamy hesitated, trying to assess the danger. He expected to see more carnage, more pyres being lit, more warriors clashing.

Instead, he saw children being coaxed out of hiding, the dead woman’s body draped in a shroud, pyres being extinguished with silent concentration.

He accepted the cloth and pressed it to the wound, groaning. A thought occurred; he remembered the Azgeda demand for Skaikru’s fealty. “Why did they attack?” Bellamy asked the question slowly as though thinking aloud. 

“Azgeda has always been our enemy,” Indra said, fingers running over the blood-soaked blade before sheathing it. “This is an act of war.”

“Will you go to war?” Bellamy asked.

He was trying to think of the questions Clarke would ask. He was good with a gun and okay at keeping people alive, but he wasn’t a tactician. He could whip a crowd into a frenzy with his words, but that had proven a useless skill in peace-making. Clarke, on the other hand, had a natural sway over people, an unrivaled intuition of the right questions and turns of phrase to draw out just the information she wanted.

“The Commander will make those decisions.” Indra’s voice was neutral, but Bellamy had spent long enough with her to see the truth. Her eyes gave it away. She would have more say than she was letting on; she would demand retribution and she would get it.

Bellamy bit his tongue as he finally realized the question Clarke would ask: how would the ceasefire fair if a war broke out? She had been hinting to him that she thought their current agreement was untenable. He had shrugged her off, but, now, he wondered if she was right. It wasn’t a question he could ask, though. It wasn’t the time or place.

The air was smoky and the village was loud as the villagers and Indra’s scouts attempted to coordinate their actions. Indra dismissed herself, eyes landing on the Azgeda woman Bellamy had killed; one of her warriors was lifting the body.

He was trying to find somewhere to slip in and begin offering aid when he spotted the girl with the straw-colored hair.

Marching across the village, Bellamy stopped in front of the girl. She looked up at him with blank eyes. Her sister was still cradled in her arms. The younger girl’s breathing was easier, some of the panic gone from her face. Bellamy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the little pot of medicine he carried. It was green in color; one of Lincoln’s concoctions mixed with a weak antibiotic they had retrieved from Mount Weather – it would help until she could see a healer.

The older girl regarded the offering with narrow eyes.

“Teik em in.” _Take it._ Her fingers twitched as though she was about to take it before she shook her head. “Beja.” _Please._

She kept shaking her head, tears springing forward. Bellamy was frustrated. He wished he knew more of the language, could explain that he just wanted to help, that he would want someone to help his sister if anything like this ever befell her. He wished Clarke was there; she had a way of putting panicking and injured people at ease that he hadn’t quite mastered.

“En’s ku. Oso na wich em in.” _It’s okay. We can trust him._ The speaker had a gravelled voice. Bellamy glanced over his shoulder. It was the storyteller from that morning. She held herself up on a gnarled stick, face commanding. The girl bowed her head and accepted the balm. “Hello, Bellamy kom Skaikru.” 

Bellamy’s ears perked up. “You speak English?”

The woman nodded, a smile ghosting over her features before they settled once again into a calm control.

“The balm stops infection. It numbs the pain,” Bellamy said, pointing between the salve and the wound. He explained the application the way Lincoln and Dr. Griffin had. The old woman repeated it back to the girls in Trigedasleng.

“Walk with me,” the woman said, motioning for Bellamy to follow her. He obeyed; he told himself it was relief at finally being able to communicate with someone other than Indra. He suspected, however, that it had more to do with a small spark of hope that she might share one of her stories.

They strode through the village, the woman taking uneven and slow steps. Bellamy’s injured hip encouraged him to match her pace; the pressure he was still applying had staunched most of the bleeding, but the pain had only grown hotter and more distracting as the wound dried up.

They stopped at the stump the old woman had been perched on that morning and she gingerly lowered her body, resting her cane on the edge.

“You have a warrior’s head, but your heart is too soft.”

The pronouncement should have made him angry, but petulance was all Bellamy could muster as he grumbled, “I just killed three people.” The number sunk into his bones. He wondered why anyone would need to wear their kills on their body when they so easily tattooed themselves on the soul.

“Do you mourn them? Those you’ve killed?”

He thought about the question; he killed when he had to, when there didn’t seem to be another choice. He couldn’t regret those deaths, but he would be a liar if he claimed not to see their faces when he closed his eyes, not to hear the crunch of their bones and last wet gurgling breaths just as he drifted into sleep at night.

“You do,” she said, head leaning forward with delight. “A warrior who mourns the enemy. I have no stories to tell about that.”

Bellamy didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “You’re a storyteller?” he asked. He knew the answer, but hoped this might distract her, hoped that maybe he could get her out of his head and into someone else’s. 

She nodded, light jumping in her eyes. “Would you trade your story for one of mine?”

Bellamy considered this. A calm had descended over the camp; he could spare a few minutes, he convinced himself. He was wary, however, to share too much. Wary of opening up to a stranger, even if that stranger seemed genuine. “Why do you want my story?”

“They’re all tired of mine, of course.” She shrugged as though it was the obvious reason.

It wasn’t.

“One story,” Bellamy said, trying to choose the least revealing one. He nixed mention of Octavia immediately and of Clarke shortly thereafter. They were too important to share with this woman. He nixed any story containing strategic details about Arkadia or about the early days on the ground when war between Trikru and Skaikru had been a simple fact. Story after story popped into his head and story after story was discarded as too personal, too strategic, too painful.

Finally, he settled on a short recollection of life on the Ark; it was impersonal and he omitted details throughout, but the storyteller's smile grew. Her expression twisted into something greedy and vicious, devouring the details.

He had satisfied her hunger, he knew, when she launched into her own tale.

Her story was of the First Commander.

A small crowd gathered as she spoke; expressions ranged from intent interest to the passive annoyance with which he had often seen citizens of the Ark devour the Unity Day story. He had never liked that story. As a child, he had sulked when attending with his mother. That had turned to glowering throughout the festivities in subsequent years as the omitted details became more obvious.

This story, however, spoke to something deep inside of Bellamy. It was the story of a woman who fell to the ground after the bombs, staggering out, bleeding black. The story of a vicious struggle for power that eventually spawned the twelve clans and, more recently, the Coalition. It was a story about years of life and survival as much as it was a story of war and death. It was the story of the grounders, but Bellamy couldn’t help seeing the story of Skaikru woven into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... lots of original worldbuilding here, but I tried to base it mostly on things we have seen on-screen. My favorite part about this was trying to figure out where Eden's Pass might be - I consulted like... every fan map and post about it as well as the information we get in canon about the distances between key places. I decided that it would be interesting if the Potomac acted as a kind of barrier between Azgeda and Trikru and, thus, the northernmost Trikru village, Potomc, was born.
> 
> Back to your regularly scheduled Bellarke next chapter, but, for now, I hope you enjoyed a little bit of introspection and a whole lot of canon-typical conflict!


	5. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Clarke spent her first week back at Arkadia trailing Monty like a ghost. She had been in the way more often than she helped, but he was good-natured and had found tasks so simple she - theoretically - couldn’t botch them.

The work kept her hands busy, but did little to distract her mind.

Bellamy’s words: _you don’t have to hide anymore_ , replayed over and over as she tried to parse them. But trying to make sense of Bellamy’s words only revealed a truth she’d rather ignore: she was terrified – of getting too comfortable, of bringing harm to those she loved, of love itself.

After a week of avoidance, however, Clarke found herself walking into medical with a mild sense of resignation.

She had incorrectly spliced a wire and shorted out a large portion of the perimeter that morning. Monty hadn’t yelled at her, but he had pushed her out of the room and locked the door with a shrug, a forced smile, and an insinuation that she should stop trying to roleplay as an engineer. The circumstances had left her with little choice besides facing her fears and braving her old domain.

In medical, the overhaul and improvements were striking. Real IV lines, attached to pristine metal stands, ended in clear plastic cannulas. Vials of antibiotics sat on shelves alongside a plethora of grounder remedies labeled in Abby’s careful scrawl. Her mother, busy with Chancellor duties, was nowhere to be found, but the smile on Jackson’s face was welcoming.

He didn’t waste time on small talk, but, instead, handed her a small suture kit and pointed to a patient in the back corner of the bay. The man was perched on an exam table, a raw wound splitting open his forearm.

Clarke approached the patient, the natural bedside manner she had cultivated during her apprenticeship coming back like second nature as she settled onto a stool and began inspecting the wound. It wasn’t deep enough to set off alarm bells; the fatty tissue was visible but the muscle underneath was still obscured. The wound was long, however, and it had bled – a lot. The dirt and wood dust coating his forearm in a thick layer did send up a single red flag – infection risk.

The man offered an embarrassed smile when Clarke asked what happened.

“Fell out of a tree.” He looked up at Clarke sheepishly as though expecting a reprimand. “Hate to waste resources like this.”

Clarke worked a wet cloth gently over the wound. She pressed down harder, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of dirt. He blew out a rough breath, but held his arm still. She was grateful for that.

She attempted to make small talk to distract him. With this, she was painfully out of practice. “What were you doing in the tree?”

“Watched too many adventure movies on the Ark.” There was a small glint in his eyes, an awe that Clarke wished she could still feel, an awe she hadn’t felt since she plunged a knife into Finn’s stomach. For just a second, she was envious; a split forearm was this man’s low. She couldn’t relate, but it reassured her. When she chose to bear it so they didn’t have to, this was why. She had made the choice so her people could climb trees and fall down and get back up again with only a bruised ego.

“The ground makes us do unexpected things.” She tried to smile, but it came out a sad mockery. The ground had made her do things she would never have dreamed of on the Ark; she had killed and almost been killed, she had relished in the blood of her enemies and mourned them in the same breath, she had felt relief when a threat was exterminated and experienced a constant feedback loop of shame in response.

Clarke picked up the thread and needle from the suture kit and took a steadying breath.

The man’s forearm was tense; muscles bunched, veins jumping.

“Deep breaths help.”

He took a deep breath and another, settling into a rhythm. Clarke waited for his arms to relax before pulling the first stitch through the wound. He tensed; she paused. Another deep breath and his forearm relaxed. Clarke sewed more stitches, picking up the pace as she became more comfortable with the weight of the needle.

Anya had once said that she was weak, that all of Skaikru was weak; for the first time, Clarke wanted to guard that weakness, nurture it, and reassure her people that they didn’t have to be strong in the way the grounders were. It was foolish, she knew, and an assured path to destruction. Bellamy would scoff at the idea and remind her in that infuriatingly calm tone that who they needed to be and who they wanted to be would never be the same thing.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the man said as Clarke pulled the last stitch through the wound, tugging gently to secure her work.

The words were unexpected. Clarke’s hand faltered, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t want this mantle; she didn’t deserve it, didn’t want to live up to it.

Clarke took her time retrieving a roll of bandages. She took a couple breaths and, when she returned, it was easier to smile and pretend like she could shoulder the burden that had just been placed on her shoulders. “Come back in and get this replaced before you go to work in the morning. You’ll want to keep it covered for the next couple days to avoid infection.”

“Not gonna lose my arm, then?” the man asked, a broad grin on his face.

“No,” Clarke said with a small shake of her head as she repacked the suture kit.

“See?” His tone was still joking, but sincerity filled his eyes. “You’re a hero.”

Clarke smiled – a real smile – despite herself.

* * *

The ground always had a surprise tucked up her sleeve.

Clarke cursed herself silently for forgetting that.

Bellamy walked into medical in the early afternoon, a casual look on his face. Clarke glanced up from the pills she was inventorying and smiled still half-focused on her task. She assumed he was back early, that he would settle in next to her and strike up a conversation as he often did when they found a couple minutes of calm together. The possibility that something was wrong didn’t even register as she portioned out ten more little orange pills into a small glass jar.

It didn’t occur until she heard his boot scrape roughly across the metal floor, a screeching noise as the steel toe rubbed a protruding bolt.

Clarke’s eyes shot up.

This time it was impossible to miss the unevenness of his gait and the way the vein in his neck jumped with each step. Clarke’s heart pounded against her chest, panic rising as the scent of copper reached her nose. She scanned him for injury, eyes landing on the low sling of his pants, the rucked up t-shirt. He was holding a blood-soaked cloth in one hand. He looked up as though sensing eyes and grimaced – Clarke was pretty sure he had intended it to be a smile.

“What happened?” Clarke demanded, bedside manner forgotten in the presence of an injured Bellamy. She was already steering him towards an exam table and calling out to Jackson for supplies by the time he answered.

“Azgeda.” His mouth was a grim line. Rage seethed just below the word and a dozen political questions vied for the spotlight. They were drowned out, though, by a sick worry.

Clarke lifted her fingers to take the bloody cloth. It slipped easily from his grip. Dried blood flaked off onto the floor, fresher blood staining Clarke’s fingers.

Dropping the cloth into a clean bowl of water, Clarke plucked the damp cloth she had laid out in preparation for the next patient off the table. She hadn’t expected that next patient to be Bellamy, but here he was.

“Lean back.”

Bellamy complied, holding his shirt up with one hand, wincing at the stretch.

The wound was deep and jagged – a stab wound. Little splinters of wood lined the opening. “Your knife?” Clarke asked even though she knew the answer.

A grumble of irritation preceded Bellamy’s answer. “Made it too damn good,” he huffed as she poked at the wound. The attempt at humor was like a breath of fresh air; he was making jokes – serious jokes, but jokes nonetheless.

The relief she felt was immediately replaced by her own irritation. “You shouldn’t have pulled it out,” she chastised, fingers hovering around the edges, measuring the distance between the wound and his femoral artery. “You’d have bled out if it was an inch to the left.” Her fingers traced the path. Bellamy’s face was hard and bored as though she was reading a script that he had already made plans to ignore.

To her right, Jackson wheeled up a cart of additional supplies. He shook his head when he caught sight of the wound. “Do you want me to do it?” he asked, looking at the wound with a critical eye.

“She’s got it,” Bellamy said in a clipped tone before Clarke could respond.

Jackson looked at Clarke for confirmation. She nodded, pressing her lips together; she had treated worse at the dropship camp. Hell, she had treated worse wounds than this for Bellamy before.

Clarke was glad for the berth everyone gave her and Bellamy as she started to sift through the supplies. Trying to find the right words was proving difficult, mostly because she couldn’t decide what to chastise Bellamy for next; pulling the blade out in the field, not using Lincoln’s ointment she had delivered to him that morning, or not immediately telling her he had been stabbed when he got to medical.

Before she could decide where to start, however, Bellamy said, “Things have changed.”

Clarke gritted her teeth, beginning to tend to the wound with careful hands. Bellamy wasn’t weak; once he got used to the feeling of her fingers prodding the wound, he held his body still. His breathing changed paces at times, but Clarke was almost convinced that was just a visceral reaction to his retelling of the conflict.

She wondered, absently, if his kills would fit on his body. She decided they wouldn’t and it was oddly reassuring that she wasn’t alone in that dilemma.

“They’ll go to war,” Bellamy said, his expression settling into a grim mask.

“And what does that mean for Arkadia?”

“When bloodlust sweeps the ground?” It was rhetorical. Clarke secured the bandage, waiting for Bellamy to sort his thoughts. “The ceasefire won’t hold. We’re too close to the border. No one is sworn to protect us.” Bellamy’s words were clipped and precisely articulated.

The idea Clarke had been nurturing bloomed, filling her mind with vines and thorns. If the ceasefire wasn’t enough – “Then we demand protection.”

Bellamy’s answering laugh was wry, a hint of mocking in it as though she were naïve and untested. It made her skin prickle and she scowled. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Listen. I’ve been trying to get that for three months.” Of course, Clarke thought, unsure why she had assumed Bellamy would be satisfied with something so impermanent and toothless as the ceasefire. “The Commander won’t budge.”

Lexa wouldn’t talk to Bellamy or the Chancellor, but, Clarke wondered, would she talk to her? A small voice at the back of Clarke’s mind whispered that she might.

She wasn’t ready to explore that possibility with Bellamy yet. The plan she was tending wasn’t stable enough and Clarke knew he wouldn’t like it – no matter how airtight it was when she finally told him. Her best bet was to get everything organized, in place, nailed down, and then inform Bellamy of his role as though his agreement had been woven in from the beginning.

Even though she wasn’t ready to broach the topic, it felt a lot like having a purpose. The sheer possibility sparked something in Clarke that had been lying dormant for too long – a desire to lead, to give orders and be followed, to make plans and execute them.

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed as though he could see the wheels turning, but he didn’t ask. Clarke was grateful for that.

She changed the subject hastily. “You mentioned a storyteller?”

Bellamy’s eyes gleamed with irrefutable passion, his suspicion forgotten for a moment. Clarke was glad she had changed the subject. She would have plenty of time to make plans later, but her time with Bellamy had been so limited recently – he had been so busy and getting to see him excited like this was rare. She would savor it for a little while before returning to the world of responsibility. “She told me about the First Commander,” Bellamy said, a thoughtfulness in his eyes that had Clarke leaning forward on her stool, propping her elbow on the exam table and resting her chin in her palm. He recounted bits of the story, his eyes going faraway and clearing up in turn as though getting every detail precisely correct was integral.

“Black blood?” Clarke asked, unsure if she had misheard him. He had been describing the metal case the First Commander brought with her; vials that turned the blood black and passed from parent to child.

“They call them Nightbloods,” Bellamy confirmed. “It’s a requirement. To be in the running for Commander, you have to have the blood.” Bellamy shook his head with a deep chuckle. “Weird, right?”

Clarke nodded slowly. Black blood, she repeated to herself. What mutation would cause that? And why would it become hereditary? What was the evolutionary benefit? Her nose wrinkled in concentration.

One of Bellamy’s fingers reached out after a long moment and tapped the bridge of her nose. Clarke’s eyes shot up, mouth already opening to say something biting. He pointed behind her before she could speak; her eyes followed his finger. A woman was cradling her arm. It was bent in a sickening U-shape and she was whipping her head back and forth in a disoriented fashion. Jackson was nowhere in sight.

Clarke glanced back at Bellamy. He was already pulling himself up from the exam table, wincing as he adjusted to the new pressure on the wound. Without thinking, Clarke said, “I want to hear the rest of the story.”

Bellamy cocked an eyebrow, doubt passing over his expression. Clarke kept eye contact for just a split second longer than was natural. He nodded when she didn’t shy away and schooled his expression into confident disinterest. The tiny tilt at the edge of his lips, though, and the messy rake of his fingers through knotted curls were their own small gift to Clarke – little reminders that no matter how much things changed, this passionate and intelligent Bellamy would always be there to tell her a story.

* * *

Clarke sat on her bed that night, blonde hair damp and clean for the first time in months. She wore a fresh set of clothes and her sketchbook, the one she had started after leaving, sat in her lap. Lexa’s eyes stared back at her – black because she didn’t have anything to capture their light color. Her skin was free of warpaint as it had been when they kissed. A dull ache started in Clarke’s chest at the reminder of the betrayal. She had been grieving Finn and terrified of the danger she had placed Bellamy in. And she had found solace in Lexa – only to be betrayed. It left her angry and vengeful.

Those weren’t emotions to lean into, however, no matter how much Lexa would coach her to embrace them. She knew what she needed to do for her people and vengeance wasn’t part of that. Justice wasn’t either.

She traced her fingers across the small gear Lexa wore in the center of her forehead – a Trikru status symbol. It was a reminder that she was both leader of the thirteen clans as well as a loyal member of Trikru. It gave Clarke hope that her plan might work; if Trikru was already willing to maintain a ceasefire, at least for a short time, the Commander might be willing to give more for the right price.

Clarke’s jaw set with determination.

She laid the sketchbook down on the mattress. The spine was broken with use and the pages fluttered before landing on an image that she had fallen asleep staring at more often than she would be willing to admit. Dark eyes and freckled skin stared back from the page. A mess of curls fell over his forehead and his lips tilted up at the edge into a grin that used to infuriate her. Now, looking at the image again, she could see that, no matter how much it served as a lifeline during the previous months, it could never live up to the real thing.

“Clarke.” Her mother’s voice was hesitant. Clarke slammed the sketchbook shut before embarrassment could work its way into her bones. “You were looking for me.” There was a hopefulness in her mother’s tone that Clarke was about to shatter.

Clarke’s fingers glanced over the soft leather cover of the sketchbook and she nodded. Standing up, she walked closer to Abby, dropping her voice so no one passing could hear and said, “I need to see Lexa.”

Abby’s expression shifted immediately. Her face was that of a Chancellor, not a mother. Her hope was replaced by guarded attention.

“It’s been three months since Mount Weather,” Clarke said, trying to get as many words out before her mother could level an outright rejection, before the plan slid from sanctioned to treason. “Azgeda has only gotten bolder with the Mountain Men gone. We need more than a ceasefire; we need a treaty recognized by the Coalition. If I could talk to the Commander – ”

“No.” Abby’s voice was fierce as she cut in. “You’ve been gone, Clarke.” Her voice had a pleading edge, but it only seemed to add to the finality of her tone. Clarke opened her mouth to argue. “I’m the Chancellor and I forbid it.”

Clarke’s skin prickled at the word _forbid_ , at the invocation of status. “You’re Chancellor,” Clarke conceded, stepping closer to Abby, “and you haven’t found peace for your people. Give me the chance to do that for them.”

Abby shook her head. “I can’t.” She took a deep breath and said, “I can’t let you go.”

“Are we doing this again?” She was tired of clashing with her mother at every turn, tired of being treated like a child. Abby’s determined expression faltered. “We’re alive because I made hard decisions. I’m making another one now.”

“Things are different.” Clarke was so tired of being told how different things were; from her vantage point, too many things were the same. There was the same uncertainty, the same aggressions, and the same risks. “Our people are safe. Anything you do puts that in danger.”

“If the ceasefire is so fragile that letting me see the Commander collapses it,” Clarke volleyed back, “it’s not enough.”

“It’s not up for discussion, Clarke.”

The _again_ was unspoken, but she heard it and she wanted to scream. She had only ever risked lives to save them; she had saved them. She clung to that even as her mother turned away. If the Chancellor wouldn’t do anything, Clarke vowed that she would. She had done it before. She would do it again. She just had to convince Bellamy – and Raven and Octavia.


	6. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

A stiff ache had settled over Bellamy’s body, radiating out from the stab wound at his hip in all directions. He shifted in the unforgiving metal seat and rubbed his face, a sense of hopelessness descending like acid fog – quick and deadly. 

A thick volume of mythology sat open on the desk – a gift from Octavia. Reading the stories therein was a last-ditch effort at distraction after spending hours updating inventory lists and annotating maps.

Unable to concentrate, Bellamy pushed back from the desk. The chair scraped loudly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. In the moments when he pushed away the faces of the dead, Clarke’s face emerged in their stead. She had had that look in her eyes when they parted ways in medical; like she was formulating a plan to save them all.

Shrugging on his Guard jacket, Bellamy tucked the book under his arm and exited his pod.

Each step exacerbated the ache in his hip – stiffness giving way to pain. He tuned into the throbbing and occasional searing stretch in his abdomen; it was something to focus on. Letting his feet carry him through the corridors, Bellamy dropped his guard.

Oddly enough, after years living in fear on the Ark, this scrap of what remained was now the one place on the ground where he felt like he could breathe. No one here wanted to stab or shoot him.

So far, Bellamy thought when he realized he was standing in front of Clarke’s door. It was cracked open and light was visible around the edges.

He told himself to keep walking, but his feet wouldn’t comply. Rubbing his face roughly, Bellamy knocked. “It’s me,” he called, cringing at the awkward announcement even as she called back, inviting him in.

Clarke was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair damp. Her nose was scrunched up and her lips pressed into a flat line as she scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper. When she looked up, her eyes widened for a second before returning to normal, a mask slipping easily over her face.

“I look like hell,” Bellamy spoke the words he knew she was thinking. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, knotted from roughly running his hands through it and his eyes were, undoubtedly, red with exhaustion. He had shrugged his Guard jacket lazily over an old grey t-shirt and tattered black pants.

Clarke opened her mouth as though she might protest before shutting it and nodding. “That happens to people when they get stabbed.” Her tone was light, but he saw the way her eyes flashed to his hip. The wound was covered by bandages and clothing, but he sensed that she could construct its ragged edges from memory. She was attentive like that.

Her eyes lingered, darkening as they swept upwards. A zing of electricity shot through Bellamy. He could fool himself, if he really tried, into thinking that the way her pupils blew out was from desire, but it was a dangerous game. If he let himself hope even once that he saw a need in her expression that mirrored his own, he’d never be able to stop. It would end just short of tragedy; Clarke would laugh at him or go cold or any number of other things powerful and self-assured women like Clarke did to reject men like him.

Bellamy’s mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton; his thoughts had scattered, caught in her gaze.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Clarke asked.

Her papers had been discarded to one side; pencil perched on top. They were face down, Bellamy noted, cataloguing that alongside the glimmer in her eyes earlier that day – he knew he might be constructing something out of nothing, but imagining the grand plan she was working on was a good distraction from where his brain threatened to take him. So, for now, he assumed she had a plan and would continue assuming that her actions spoke to that until she told him otherwise – it was safe.

“Who sleeps?” he asked, pointedly looking at her stacks of paper. She offered a rough smile like she was unused to working the muscles. “What’re you working on?” Bellamy slipped into the room, pressing the door shut behind him.

Clarke’s hand fell protectively over the papers and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Nothing.” Her words came out too fast; it was an easy to identify tell.

“Nothing?” Bellamy asked, drawing out the word as he inched closer.

“Fine,” Clarke huffed. “Sketches, okay?”

Bellamy’s eyebrows rose at that. It wasn’t what he had expected – it didn’t match the loose papers, the serious determination, and the late hour.

A hot, red flush had started to inch up Clarke’s neck and stain her face. But she didn’t back down.

Good-naturedly, Bellamy held up his hands in surrender, veering to sit in the chair at Clarke’s desk. He spun it so it faced her, gritting his teeth as he lowered himself into it. It was no more comfortable than the one in his room, but something about being close to Clarke made it easier to stomach. Bellamy leaned back, trying to take some of the pressure off his hip.

“Take a seat,” Clarke said, sarcasm infusing her tone.

“Thank you,” he drawled as though accepting a kind invitation. A casual smile played at Bellamy’s lips as he relaxed. The truth was, pushing Clarke’s buttons had always been easier than facing his own fears. “You can sketch me if you want,” Bellamy offered, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

He vaguely heard her huff, followed by papers shuffling. An amused smile tugged at his lips as he gave in, letting himself believe that she really was sketching him, that she paid special attention to the details – that when he caught her watching his hands, she wasn’t looking for the murderer housed inside of them, but something else. It made his heart squeeze and ache simultaneously – beautiful and shameful all at once.

The sound of Clarke’s pencil scratching pulled him under within minutes.

* * *

The room was dark when Bellamy jolted awake. The hard chair and the pain in his hip blurred his memory. He held his breath, held completely still, and traced the outline of the room with his eyes.

He exhaled in relief when he spotted Clarke’s sleeping form. In the dim light filtering in from the hallway through the crack under her door, she was little more than a shadow curled in a tight ball – protecting her organs, Bellamy thought, remembering that she had spent months sleeping in the open where anything could wander up.

Adrenaline subsided quickly.

Bellamy tried to stand quietly, but his hip was tight from disuse and the chair scraped. His shoulders shot up, glancing at Clarke who shifted in her sleep. He walked towards the door. Every booted step seemed to echo. A snuffling noise behind him made Bellamy curse silently before a small voice, uncertain in a way he had never before heard it, asked, “Stay?”

Bellamy’s heart stuttered at the request. He closed his eyes tight, willing himself to walk away.

Instead, he turned and asked, “Clarke?” She hummed in response, legs stretching out as she slid closer to the wall. “I can stay without crowding you, you know?” His tone was a shoddy attempt at the confident humor he often wore as a mask – it was too late and he was tired and in pain and wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Clarke Griffin.

Clarke sighed, a long and heavy noise, blankets pulling tighter before she said, “You don’t have to come here, but I’d like it.” Her voice was more confident, now, even as she seemed to shrink impossibly closer to the wall.

Fuck it, Bellamy thought, crossing the room in three long strides.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he toed his boots off, discarding them next to Clarke’s before easing his legs up onto the bed.

He had spent the early days on the ground with different girls – sometimes more than one – every night. But something about laying next to Clarke made him feel like a lost teenager, uncertain how to adjust on the tiny mattress. His entire body felt stiff and contorted, one leg dangerously close to falling off the bed as he tried to avoid crowding her, tried not to infringe on her space.

A long and silent moment stretched out in the darkness.

Clarke broke it with a huff. It sent a net of tension over Bellamy’s body; she had seen the error in her offer. He braced himself – physically and mentally – for the rejection.

It didn’t come.

Instead, small fingers reached out and tugged gently on his shoulders. Bellamy shifted willingly, letting her take the lead.

He was fully on the bed now.

She draped an edge of the blanket across his midsection, giving him the option to slip under the blanket if he chose, and shifted closer. She settled with her head on his shoulder. The stillness of her body against his was warm and all-encompassing.

His breath hitched when she tilted her head up, nuzzling the side of his neck softly until he tilted his head back, allowing her to tuck her head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder. Her fingers were gentle and careful to avoid his hip as she draped an arm across his stomach.

“Get comfortable.” The words were basically a command and Bellamy couldn’t find the rational part of his brain to chastise him into ignoring it – to warn him that giving into this was opening a door he wouldn’t be able to close.

If he was going to wreck himself, he thought bitterly, he might as well commit.

Shifting, Bellamy snaked one arm under Clarke, cradling her shoulder, letting the other rest on her hip. Electricity burned through his veins at the soft intake of air, almost a gasp, that met his movement. The urge to drag her closer, to be consumed by and to consume her was hard to ignore as she played a calloused finger over his uninjured hip.

Every nerve in his body was awake and alive, yearning for more, pleading with him to take more, to beg for more. Clarke’s fingers had slipped just below the hem of his shirt and were cool against his bare flesh.

When it all got to be too much, Bellamy whispered, “Get some sleep,” in a hoarse voice.

Her fingers stilled and she nodded against his chest, a yawn causing her to press impossibly closer, back arching. Bellamy’s brain short-circuited even as his own body tensed with an answering yawn. It was a reminder of both their exhaustion.

Bellamy closed his eyes, sleep swooping in fast and heavy, weighing his limbs down. Just before exhaustion pulled him under, he imagined the soft brush of lips up the column of his throat.

* * *

Bellamy had always been an early riser and, despite the early hours Clarke kept, she wasn’t naturally inclined to wake up before the sun.

That was an amusing realization when he stumbled across it back at the dropship camp. Back then, he would emerge from his tent, head cloudy with moonshine and sex, to find Clarke had already been up for hours. The truth was, though, that by the time he emerged, he had spent the better half of the morning awake, lying as still as possible so as not to disturb the girls in his tent – so as not to tip anyone off that _whatever the hell you want_ didn’t come as naturally to him as he pretended.

He did something similar now. Awake, but unwilling to disturb Clarke, he fell into an old pattern. Brain racing, he compiled a list of responsibilities. His injury at Potomc had effectively been a confinement sentence once Chancellor Griffin got wind of it; no mapping missions, no scouting, no hunting. He was sure she had an even longer list of restrictions, but Clarke had, thankfully, interrupted before she could rattle them off.

Minutes passed slow and hours fast before Clarke’s fingers ghosted over his hip. Bellamy sucked in a breath. Her breathing remained steady and her fingers stilled.

Bellamy let his head roll to the side, glancing around the room. The light from the hall streamed in brighter. Camp would be awakening soon.

The haphazard mass of paper beside the bed caught Bellamy’s eye; the drawings Clarke had been working on were scattered as though they had fallen from the bed the previous night. She was private about her sketches and Bellamy knew he should look away, but his eyes were drawn to a sheet – the only one turned face-up – on which dozens of hands were sketched in varying degrees of finality. Some were simple outlines. Other featured prominent callouses and tiny scars. His hands, Bellamy realized, surprise coloring his face. She really had been sketching him.

Warmth filled Bellamy’s entire body as he tilted his head down, brushing his lips softly over the crown of Clarke’s blonde hair – she smelled like soap and charcoal.

Her toes flexed against his calf and he focused on breathing steadily – in and out – in an attempt to hold onto this feeling for just a moment longer. A sound halfway between a moan and a hum escaped her mouth as she stretched her legs, toes running from Bellamy’s calf to his ankle. His arms tightened involuntarily, pulling her tighter to his chest. “Good sleep?” Bellamy asked, voice deep and low as her fingers splayed across his stomach.

“Yes.” Clarke’s voice was lazy with sleep. Her head nudged closer, settling under his jaw as it had the previous night. A beat of silence. “You meet with my mom and Kane twice a week, right?”

The question was light, but it woke Bellamy up like a bucket of cold water. Insecurity gripped him. He knew where this was going. He knew she could feel his chin lifting up and down in a nod, so he didn’t force himself to speak.

“I want to be included in those.”

Bellamy’s jaw tightened against the accusation sitting on his tongue. It was ridiculous, he told himself, to have so wholly given into delusion. Everything between them had always been colored with politics and bartering – a perpetual give and take. To think that this was anything else – anything more – had been a mistake.

Reluctantly, Bellamy extricated himself from Clarke’s hold. She made a noise of protest, but, suddenly, he was in desperate need of space. He sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing his boots, looking anywhere but back at Clarke, and said, “I’ll set it up.” He tugged his boots on roughly, ignoring the way the movement threatened to split open the carefully sewn wound at his hip. “I have rounds to make.”

“Oh,” Clarke said. The sound was small and surprised and Bellamy wanted nothing more than to turn around and fall back into her bed.

Instead, he stood up, crossed the room, and draped his jacket over his arm.

No matter how much self-loathing and doubt riddled his body, he wasn’t looking to torture himself or, worse, trick himself again.

“Thank you.” Her voice was stronger.

Bellamy nodded before slipping out the door.

He didn’t look back and the only thing he could think as he trudged back to this room to get ready for the day ahead was how much of a complete fool he was.


	7. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Clarke rolled to her side, staring at the door Bellamy had just slipped out. Sleep still hazed her thoughts and weighed down her body, but confusion was fast pulling her into full consciousness. The mattress was warm where Bellamy had been and, when Clarke pressed her nose to the pillow, she could smell him – all leather and wood and gunpowder. But he wasn’t there. Because she had said _something_ wrong.

Pulling herself into a seated position, Clarke tossed her legs over the edge of the bed.

That was when she noticed the sketch, face-up, on the floor. Her heart skittered and her face heated up. She wondered if he had seen it; if he recognized his hands and knew how much she needed him.

Fear gripped Clarke. Had she overstepped by inviting him to stay, by curling up against his chest and taking her first nightmare-free sleep in months? It had certainly felt like a mistake when she had to watch him leave without so much as a glance back at her.

The thoughts were intrusive and unwelcome. Unproductive.

Standing, Clarke took a steadying breath, pushing away the uneasiness winding tight in her stomach. Bellamy had rounds and she had a mission – find Octavia and Raven, convince them to help her. Whatever had happened between her and Bellamy could be dealt with later.

Her first task – finding Octavia – proved more difficult than she expected.

Clarke searched high and low, walking every inch of Arkadia, ducking into the small buildings dotting the packed dirt spiraling out from Alpha Station. Searching the station itself would be a more involved process.

Relief washed over Clarke when Harper finally took pity on her and pointed her in the correct direction: top level of Alpha Station and hook a right.

The room was outfitted for training; bits of body armor and an array of weapons were organized in one corner and a staging area had been crafted to keep spectators out of harm’s way. Octavia’s sword was on the floor to one side and Lincoln’s blade on the opposite.

The air was hot; Lincoln was shirtless, tattoos glistening and Octavia’s tank top was marred with dark patches of sweat. Clarke felt her own skin prickling with sweat; all the humidity on the ground seemed to have concentrated, temporarily, in the training room. Clarke wondered if Lincoln had picked this room because it so closely mimicked the often hot and sticky weather in Tondc.

Octavia drew in a ragged breath, darting forward and sending a fist into Lincoln’s shoulder. His balance faltered for a split second before he reset his feet, rushing towards Octavia at full-tilt. He was surprisingly fast, but Octavia crouched, side-stepping him with ease.

It was an interesting fight to watch and it made Clarke’s heart beat faster, her own adrenaline rushing.

One thing was immediately clear – Lincoln didn’t throw punches at Octavia; he rushed her and tried to catch her off guard, to get her off her feet. But even as her fist cracked against his stomach, he simply grabbed her wrist and twisted. She fought the hold, sending an elbow back into his sternum. A rough exhalation of air whooshed from his lips and Octavia used the hesitation to twist in a difficult to track flurry of movement. The empty sheath strapped to her back slapped hard against her skin with the movement, but she didn’t flinch.

Once again standing across from one another, they circled. Octavia tucked her shin and Lincoln’s lips pulled up into a smile as they both lunged for their blades. Octavia rolled as she picked hers up, Lincoln already advancing. She glanced over her shoulder as though checking her distance from the wall and ran forward, ducking under Lincoln’s arm as he slashed forward. She pivoted and the blade of her sword poked the spot directly between his shoulder blades.

The smile on Lincoln’s face was full of pride as he muttered something inaudible in Trigedasleng.

Octavia’s blade sagged, hanging lazily from her hand. Lincoln turned and pressed a kiss to her forehead, whispering something else Clarke couldn’t hear. He grabbed his shift, pulling it over his head and tucked his blade into the sheath at his hip. He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Octavia before picking up a black jacket – a Guard jacket, Clarke realized. When he passed Clarke, he said, “It’s good that you’re back,” patting her shoulder as he slipped out of the room.

She and Octavia were alone, now, in the stuffy room.

Octavia, sword in hand, walked closer to Clarke, fingers tightening around the hilt as she tested its weight. Clarke’s heart sped up at Octavia’s predatory advance, at the way her eyes gleamed when she lifted the blade, finally looking into Clarke’s eyes. The glint of disgust put Clarke on edge. She thought of the blade in her pocket and her fingers twitched involuntarily.

In a single, fluid motion, Octavia sheathed the sword across her back and barked a humorless laugh. “Looks like Wanheda isn’t as tough as everyone thinks.”

Clarke bit back a retort. She had hurt Octavia and, perhaps, their friendship was beyond repair, but she also knew that the woman staring back at her, sword strapped to her back and sweat soaking her braids, would agree to her plan. “I need your help.”

“Good thing I didn’t die in Tondc, then.” Octavia’s tone was biting. She looked away from Clarke with an eye roll, fingers beginning to methodically unwind the protective bindings from her arms.

“That is good,” Clarke said earnestly, pushing on before Octavia could find another barb to toss her way. “I need to talk to Lexa.” Beating around the bush had never worked with Octavia and Clarke was sure, at that moment, Octavia was more herself than ever.

Octavia’s hand stilled for a second, caught off guard. Her fingers were stiffer as she finished unwrapping the binding on her right arm and tossed it aside, stepping closer to Clarke with serious eyes. A black tattoo swirled over her shoulder; it looked similar, but not identical, to those she had seen on Trikru warriors.

Stopping in front of her, Octavia said, “Why?” Her brow raised and she added, “And spare me the bullshit you’re gonna feed my brother.”

Bellamy was not the person Clarke wanted to think about now. Octavia’s observant nature made her a good warrior and an even better ally, but it also reminded Clarke that she had to play her cards carefully to avoid Bellamy finding out the true nature of her plan.

“She wants Wanheda,” Clarke said, settling on the simplest answer.

“She should get in line.” Octavia’s fingers reached back to trace the edge of her sheathed blade.

“I can make a deal,” Clarke said, closing the distance between herself and Octavia. Squaring her shoulders, she met Octavia’s unwavering gaze.

Octavia scoffed. “So, the princess walks back into camp and just gets to take charge?”

“If it protects our people,” Clarke started, but the way one of Octavia’s eyebrows lifted told her she had picked the wrong words.

“Lincoln is my people.” Octavia’s tone was hard and Clarke could feel success slipping away.

“Then listen to me.”

Octavia’s answering silence was all the encouragement Clarke needed.

The minutia was simple. Contact needed to be made with Indra to secure an audience with the Commander. There needed to be as few guards as possible, but enough witnesses to testify to the outcome of the meeting – if a deal wasn’t reached. A smile grew on Octavia’s lips as she listened to the plan. She nodded her head a few times throughout in affirmation of the choices Clarke had made.

Confident that Octavia was invested, Clarke dropped the bombshell she would be hiding from the others. “If she doesn’t agree to a treaty,” Clarke said, “you kill me, Octavia. You have to be the one who slays Wanheda and you have to use that to force Lexa into an agreement.”

Octavia’s eyes widened for a split second, but respect soon replaced shock. “Do you think the Commander will agree?”

Clarke shrugged. “If she doesn’t, you get revenge.” Revenge for leaving her to die in Tondc.

Octavia was silent, seeming to turn the idea over and inspect it before a fierce grin telegraphed her response. “I’ll talk to Indra.”

It was the closest thing to an agreement Clarke could have hoped for. For a second, she thought Octavia might say something else, but, after a short pause, she shook her head, shoulder knocking hard into Clarke’s as she passed.

* * *

Sliding past a semi-functional bar and skirting a bay of large machinery in various states of disrepair, Clarke found Raven leaning over the engine of one of the rovers. She stood with her weight on her uninjured leg; the one in the brace stuck out straight behind her as she bent further over the engine. Her shoulders blades pressed together and spasmed with each movement.

As Clarke drew closer, she could hear the grunts Raven made each time she attempted to maneuver her body higher.

A wrench was balanced on the edge of the rover’s engine and when Raven once again attempted to lift herself higher, her elbow knocked into it, sending it clattering to the floor. “Dammit!” she cursed, dropping back down to the ground with a wince. She turned her head a bit as though checking for witnesses. A deep frown replaced her grimace when her eyes landed on Clarke. “What do you want?” Her tone was short and the words came out as sharp as Octavia’s sword.

“You okay?” Clarke asked, eyes traveling between the dropped wrench and the hip-to-ankle brace on Raven’s leg. When she looked closer, she could see Raven’s uninjured leg quivering from exertion.

“You’re not my doctor,” Raven snapped, withdrawing a rag from her pocket on which she wiped her grease-stained fingers. “And that’s not why you’re here. You want something – spit it out.”

Clarke took a deep breath. “I want to meet with the Commander. I’ll need your help.” The words came out in a rush.

“You left.” The accusation was short and Clarke felt something inside of her break at the raw emotion cutting through the words. Raven’s face didn’t show any emotion and that, somehow, made it worse.

She had left and she couldn’t change that, so she did the next best thing. She embraced it. “I did. I left because I knew you could get by without me.”

“Spare me.” Raven tucked the grease rag back into her pocket. “I’ve heard Bellamy’s justifications a few too many times.”

Clarke was taken aback – surprised. But, of course, Bellamy had defended her. It shouldn’t have been so surprising. Except that Clarke couldn’t stop hearing the accusation in his voice when they first reunited; so similar to that which now resided in Raven’s. For just a second, Clarke let herself think about the curt tone he had taken that morning; she wondered if he was still in the business of defending her. The possibility that he wasn’t felt like a blow and Clarke quickly refocused.

Raven shook her head dismissively and turned away from Clarke, taking a jerky step towards the wrench. She pressed her palm firmly against her injured hip, bending at the waist, fingers skimming the wrench. Her fingers pressed firmer into her hip and Clarke’s own fingers itched to help, but she knew it wouldn’t be received well.

Wrench firmly in hand, Raven turned back to Clarke, a bead of sweat forming on her brow and said, “Why are you still here?”

“I’m not here to justify leaving. I’m here because I need your help.”

Raven turned the wrench over in her hand with a scowl. “Why not go to your mom? She’s the Chancellor.” Clarke exhaled slowly and realization lit up Raven’s face. “She already told you no.” The smile tugging at Raven’s lips was familiar; they were on familiar ground and it was reassuring. Even if that familiar ground was treason.

“Something like that.”

Raven flipped the wrench in her hand again before laying it on the side of the rover. “You have five minutes.” She lowered herself onto a stool, face scrunching with the effort.

“You need to be our ears.”

Clarke explained the rest, focusing on Raven’s role. If they were doing this behind Abby’s back, they needed someone at camp to relay information; if a treaty was made, the Chancellor needed to know as soon as possible. If things went wrong, she needed to know even sooner.

Clarke stopped talking.

Raven rubbed her face, a smudge of missed grease smearing from her forehead down to her nose. “God, Clarke,” she said around a rush of air. A hint of fire played in her eyes, though. A look that only graced the mechanics face when she was convinced played over her features. “You’re insane.” Raven paused. “And I’m so in.”

Clarke exhaled the breath she was holding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it.” Her lips tilted up at the sides, but there was a seriousness tinging her expression.

Guilt crept up on Clarke, unexpected and taunting. Raven, who had proven a better friend time and again than she ever deserved, might lose no matter the outcome. If the plan was successful, Raven would be the first one to admit to Abby what they had done without her knowledge. She had agreed to that readily, though. It was what happened if they secured an agreement in the way – Octavia’s way – that Raven hadn’t agreed to. She would be a part of that, even though she didn’t know that it was the contingency – she would have to live with it. It was unfair, Clarke knew, to take away her choice to refuse.

The spiral of thoughts was silenced, however, when Raven pulled herself to her feet and opened her arms.

Clarke stepped forward despite herself and pulled Raven into a hug. The contact felt like a release valve had opened. Some of the pressure that had begun to build inside of her when Bellamy left so abruptly that morning was finally being let go. The familiar smell of metal and grease and astringents filled Clarke’s nostrils and she sent up a silent hope that she didn’t make everyone involved regret this.

* * *

Bellamy was the biggest hurdle.

That was surprising to Clarke. She had assumed that so long as she brought a well-formed plan, he would sign-on. The truth was, they had dropped so easily back into their previous closeness that she assumed being her partner in this plan would be an obvious choice for him.

That was before she spent half an hour standing in the center of his room pleading her case.

“If you won’t help, I’ll do it alone,” Clarke finally said, throwing her hands in the air and walking towards the door. She was bluffing; she needed someone on the Guard to get guns. She also needed someone who would get Octavia out alive no matter how gruesome things got. Bellamy was the only person Clarke could entrust with both.

In a flurry of motion, Bellamy surged onto his feet, desk chair knocking back with a loud clatter. He positioned his body in front of the door and glared at Clarke with a fierceness that mirrored Octavia’s that morning. “No.” His voice was deep and authoritative.

Clarke’s patience was wearing thin. He had always been willing to bend the rules, to break them, if it meant securing a win for their people. And, now, when she needed him, he was being stubborn and troublesome.

“How long do we wait?” Clarke’s hands were sore from clenching at her sides and a headache was blooming at her temples, radiating out across her skull. “Do we wait for a war with Azgeda? Until the next Commander wipes us out? Until everyone we love has been picked off one by one?”

The Bellamy that Clarke knew didn’t believe in waiting. If he saw the good in a plan, he agreed to it, consequences be damned. Now, however, there was a different Bellamy standing in front of her – he might still hate waiting, but Clarke could see that he was clearly skilled at it.

“We wait until we can handle the consequences.” His tone was resigned and, despite his body blocking the door, the words came out even-keeled and reasonably as though they were having a chat about which hides to make coats from.

Clarke wanted to throw something at him. She considered the heavy volume of Greek mythology sitting on his bed for a moment before looking back at Bellamy, an idea forming. She had tried all her other angles: she had tried rationalizing why the uncertainty of a ceasefire was harmful; tried reminding him of the threat of being unallied in a war between Trikru and Azgeda; extolled why this would benefit Octavia; why this was the least they could do to absolve themselves of some of their sins at Mount Weather. Every appeal had been met with immovable resistance.

This time, she spoke slow and soft. “Lexa and I were close.” The word _close_ was emphasized in a way she hoped Bellamy might understand; the kiss had been the culmination of weeks of dancing around each other, bother she and Lexa too afraid to commit. Their people’s lives had been hanging in the balance and loss was such a cornerstone of their lives. “When she betrayed us, it didn’t just make me angry as a leader.” This was the first time she had admitted that aloud and she found herself unable to hold back the rest of the admission. “It broke my heart, too.”

Pain shadowed Bellamy’s face as understanding sparked in his eyes. He had to understand this, Clarke thought; he had lost people just as she had – without closure. While Clarke knew little of whether Bellamy had ever been in love – in a romantic way – she thought he might understand an appeal to it. He had a big heart and an endless ocean of care to bestow upon those he kept close. The softness with which he spoke to children and the gentleness of his fingers tracing her hip, her stomach, her shoulder the previous night were unmistakable signs – he had to understand.

“I need to see her.” The plea in Clarke’s voice wasn’t an act. A raw wound was reopening and she held her breath against the swell of emotions – both hers and Bellamy’s. Her words had uncovered something and she was increasingly fearful of the cost.

“What stops her from killing you on sight?” Bellamy’s voice had a thin layer of composure that didn’t reach his flaming eyes or the grim set of his lips.

This was a minor victory. He was asking questions, asking what would happen if he agreed against his own better judgment. Clarke knew she had to tread carefully to avoid unraveling that progress. “Octavia will be with me.”

Bellamy’s nostrils flared and he took a deep breath. He was trying to listen to her without letting his anger best him, but Clarke could feel it pulsing just below the surface. Clarke knew this part would be hard for him; _my sister, my responsibility_ wasn’t something he took lightly.

“I can’t keep you both safe.” His voice was firm and the words came out like a proclamation.

Good, Clarke thought. “Then you have to make sure Octavia is safe.”

The expression on Bellamy’s face was inscrutable. Clarke’s stomach felt queasy.

“And what about you?” Bellamy’s voice had an accusatory nature to it like he knew she was omitting details. One of his eyebrows raised as though he already knew he would be unsatisfied with her response.

Clarke cursed his observant nature, cursed herself for not having predicted how this conversation would go. She had been so worried about what had happened that morning that she had played out the wrong conversation in her mind. When Bellamy didn’t want to talk about that morning, she had felt off-balance and put on the spot despite the fact that she was the one who had sought him out. And, now, they were here.

“I’ll do everything I can.” Clarke couldn’t bring herself to say the words that should have ended the sentence: _to get out of there alive._ She was sure if she said them, she would tell him everything.

Clarke knew the answer would upset him, but she couldn’t have predicted such a visceral response. By the time the words were fully out of her mouth, Bellamy had already begun shaking his head. “Not good enough.” His voice was firm. “You don’t make decisions here anymore. And that’s a good thing because when you do,” his voice dropped to a low and venomous register, “people die.”

The words lodged in Clarke’s chest like a spear. She wanted to throw them back, but Bellamy was already striding away, booted feet hitting the metal floor in heavy thuds that echoed back to Clarke for a long while after he disappeared.

She knew she should leave Bellamy’s room, begin making alternative plans, but, instead, she sunk down on the edge of his bed and buried her face in her hands, taking deep breaths to steady herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that I'll stop hurting y'all soon, but, for now, have some more angst.
> 
> This chapter has some of my favorite interactions (hello, Octavia and Raven).
> 
> Fun Fact: the stuff Bellamy says at the end is a paraphrase of some dialogue from Season 3! It tears my heart out every time so I knew I had to try to replicate it. <3


	8. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

Bellamy’s head felt fuzzy like he was listening to Chancellor Griffin’s words through cotton. The methodical tap of Kane’s fingers, however, cut through Bellamy’s skull, each one like a knife lodging into his brain. Drinking away his sorrows – the memory of what he had said to Clarke – had felt like a good idea at the time. Especially with Raven egging him on. Now, however, it felt more like running from the problem.

Risking a glance at Clarke, he noted the deep-set frown on her face as she listened with unwavering eyes to her mother read inventory lists. They hadn’t spoken in two days and were only in the same room now out of necessity.

Chancellor Griffin’s drone cut off and Bellamy forced himself to drag his eyes away from Clarke. “Do you have anything to add?” The question was directed to all of them, but her eyes were on Kane. His opinions, Bellamy knew, were the only ones she cared for during these meetings. The concerns he had brought to the table – perimeter security, new rules for excursions, and stricter rules for travel into Sector 7 – had all been largely shrugged off. Kane had interrupted Bellamy, firmly advocating for waiting, listening to Indra, and playing the long-game.

It would have frustrated Bellamy on a good day and this wasn’t a good day.

With every passing second of silence, a dozen new tasks flitted through Bellamy’s mind. It was a survival strategy – putting everything on his own shoulders so he wouldn’t dwell on the pain he had seen spread across Clarke’s expression as he walked away. Her face had been wrecked and he had walked away. Bitterness filled Bellamy’s mouth as he realized how good he was getting at walking away – like his father.

“You want peace,” Clarke said, startling Bellamy out of his brooding. Her fingers splayed across the table around which they were seated. She leaned in as though it might force them to listen. It worked on Bellamy who just wanted to hear her voice. “Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “you aren’t going to get it waiting here for an invitation.”

A beat of silence.

“A summit,” Kane supplied with a slow nod. “The Commander is fair.” The words were a reminder of Kane’s time spent with Jaha as her prisoner; she had shown them mercy - if one could call it that.

The common thread of trust connecting Kane and Clarke baffled Bellamy. He was glad to see the Chancellor’s raised eyebrow; at least one person was adequately skeptical.

Clarke was nodding emphatically. Bellamy resisted the urge to groan. “Not a summit, though,” Clarke said. “That’s too risky.” Her eyes blazed with determination; it was the first sign of life she had given since sitting down at the table that morning. “If it’s just me,” Clarke said, “and things go wrong,” Bellamy flinched at the implication, “our people lose nothing.”

The rational part of Bellamy’s brain was whispering that if this was anybody but Clarke, he would be nodding along with Kane. That knowledge – that he had created some double standard where protecting Clarke outweighed protecting his people – unfurled like a snake in his belly and slithered up his throat, morphing into something ugly and vicious. “The Commander will kill you.”

Clarke shrunk back at his tone and, in any other circumstance, he might have let his eyes soften or brushed his knuckles over her shoulders, her forearm in a silent apology. He couldn’t do that, now, though, and, within seconds, her shoulders had reset, body coiling forward once again like a dare.

“It could work,” Kane said, voice modulated into an easy delivery. It made him sound like the voice of reason. Bellamy’s shoulders tightened, hands clenching into tight fists at his side.

“Absolutely not.” Chancellor Griffin’s eyes were fierce and her fingers were splayed on the table, body leaning forward in a perfect mirror of Clarke’s posture.

“Abby,” Kane said, voice soft. “If we could talk to the Commander without risking the ceasefire…” His voice trailed off softly, but the subtext was painfully clear. They had discussed meetings and summits and treaties during that first month, but the risk had always been too high. If the Chancellor made one wrong move, their people would pay. Kane, Bellamy realized, viewed this as, comparatively, low-stakes. “We could have peace.” Desire coursed through his voice and danced like fire in his eyes.

It was an appeal that Bellamy wanted to respond to, wanted to agree with. He dreamed of a world where his people could be at peace – a world where they could walk unarmed outside the walls of Arkadia, where they could stop counting the dead and start counting the living. And, yet, despite all of that, he couldn’t toss his support behind something that wasn’t strictly necessary that would put Clarke in such immediate and grave danger.

Chancellor Griffin was the one who finally put words to what Bellamy was feeling. “I can’t lose you again.” Her voice was soft and close to breaking.

Clarke seemed thrown off by the emotion and there was a beat of silence.

It only lasted a moment before Nathan Miller rounded the corner, breathing heavily, clutching his sides.

The interruption was a solemn reminder that no matter how much they planned and debated and rejected plans, the ground was full of agendas they couldn’t control.

“Riders.” Miller drew in a ragged breath. “They have a message for Clarke.”

* * *

Commotion reigned as they walked out of Alpha Station. Parents were herding children and hurrying back towards the station. Others jeered at the Riders sitting atop large and imposing black mounts just outside the open gates.

Clarke sped up, pulling ahead. Bellamy increased his pace at the same time, spotting Octavia standing outside the gates, staring down the Riders with a sword drooping lazily from her fingers. He reached the gate first.

Both Riders were dressed in full-body suits of leather and fur, faces obscured behind masks that had once struck visceral fear to Bellamy’s core. Now, he didn’t give their threatening appearance a second, more concerned with the message they were carrying.

“Wanheda.” The Rider on the left spoke in a gruff voice.

Bellamy watched stiffly as Clarke stepped forward; the Commander of Death looked impossibly small in comparison to the mammoth horses she approached. Her fingers glanced over the outside of her pocket. She had a visible pistol at her hip – her weapon of choice – but Bellamy knew the whittled knife, stained with Roan’s blood, was tucked into the pocket she kept absently stroking. She tilted her head back, lifting her chin in a controlled and defiant gesture.

“The Commander requests a meeting.” His fingers dipped into the front of his fur jacket and Bellamy’s hand dropped to the pistol at his waist. A tense second passed before he withdrew his hand clutching a folded scrap of paper. It was only a letter, Bellamy realized, but his stance didn’t relax as Clarke closed the distance between herself and the Riders. Octavia stepped forward, mirroring Clarke’s movements, sword lifting an inch in warning.

Clarke’s fingers curled around the letter and, as she moved to withdraw her hand, the Riders gloved fingers circled her wrist, locking it in place.

Bellamy’s pistol was out and trained between the man’s eyes before Clarke’s grunt of pain reached his ears. The sound of guns cocking filled the space around them and Octavia lifted her sword, ready to strike. Clarke’s back was tense, but she didn’t flinch away.

The other Rider’s sword was drawn and he was tilting his head almost imperceptibly as though assessing which threat was the most immediate.

“No tricks.” The first Rider’s voice was low and threatening. “She’ll meet with you alone.”

His grip remained firm until Clarke nodded. Free, Clarke snatched the letter and stepped back creating a wide berth between herself and the Riders.

A heavy silence descended and, after a moment, the Riders began to turn away.

Clarke’s voice stopped them. Every muscle in Bellamy’s body froze as she said, “Octavia will accompany me.”

The first Rider hesitated, horse stopping mid-turn and angled his body sideways, wrenching his head around to appraise Clarke. The silent Rider shifted forward, a blade appearing as though he might kill Clarke himself, rid the world of Wanheda once and for all. It took every bit of his training and discipline, but Bellamy kept his gun trained on the first Rider, tracking Octavia as she inched closer to the other.

Clarke remained steady, the quick tilt of her head toward Octavia the only indication that she understood the danger she was facing. Her feet were planted shoulder-width apart and her face was an unreadable mask, daring the Rider to question her command. She looked every bit the natural leader and Bellamy knew, watching her face down the two Riders, that if anyone could do this, it was her. It was a reassuring train of thought that helped Bellamy keep his hands steady and his mouth shut.

The longer the silence stretched, however, the more tension permeated the air. Rustling and uneasiness had started to filter from camp to Bellamy’s ears; onlookers were getting impatient. Grinding his heel into the dirt, Bellamy flexed his fingers around the pistol grip.

Another long second passed before the Rider grunted in agreement.

The Riders retreated at a fast clip as though attempting to get away before Clarke could leverage more demands.

When they disappeared into the tree line, Bellamy finally lowered his pistol, slipping it into his waistband. Clarke was looking at the letter in her hands; it was no more than a scrap of paper, but the way her face closed off and hardened as she read it told him who had drafted the words. Curiosity swelled inside of Bellamy; he wanted to close the distance and glance over her shoulder. He pushed it down in favor of the voice telling him that this was happening whether he liked it or not – all that he could do was cooperate and try to protect the two most important people in his life.

When Clarke looked up, her eyes trained on a spot behind Bellamy. He turned and saw the crowd pressing forward, fearful of stepping over the camp’s threshold, but intrigued by what had just unfolded.

“Get back to work,” Bellamy ordered.

The majority of the crowd turned away at the command. A few stragglers continued to stare at Clarke with wide eyes; they were staring at her like she was Wanheda, not Clarke Griffin and it made Bellamy’s skin crawl.

“Now.” His voice was louder and more authoritative. The stragglers took the hint and grumbled as they walked away.

By the time Bellamy was satisfied that everyone had returned to their work, Octavia was standing in front of Clarke with a fierce look in her eyes. “Indra hadn’t talked to the Commander yet.” Bellamy gritted his teeth; of course, Octavia had been laying the foundation of Clarke’s plan. His refusal was never going to slow her down and neither was the Council’s. “The Commander thinks this is her idea, Clarke. That’s an advantage.” Octavia’s eyes sparkled; it was unnerving to Bellamy how excited she was about the events unfurling before them. The shy girl raised in isolation that he saw every time he looked at her melted away and he saw the truth. Pride tinged the undeniable fear gripping him; the storyteller in Potomc had told him he didn’t have the heart of a warrior – his sister did, Bellamy realized.

Clarke leaned into Octavia and whispered something Bellamy couldn’t hear.

Octavia nodded, clapping Bellamy’s back with a gloved hand as she passed. His eyes followed her as she ran towards her mount, Helios; she kept her radio near him most of the time, Bellamy knew. He hoped that was what she was seeking. He had enough on his mind without worrying about Octavia taking off alone again.

When Bellamy turned back, Kane and Chancellor Griffin were approaching Clarke. Kane’s face was hopeful and the Chancellor’s full of determination. Bellamy was oscillating rapidly between emotions – anger, fear, hope. It all mixed together and he couldn’t decide which one to lean into.

Emotions were hard, but picking his next action was easy. He closed the distance between himself and Clarke, settling in at her side. “So,” Bellamy said slowly, “what’s the plan?”

Clarke’s head swiveled, surprise evident in her eyes. A question formed there and Bellamy gave a slight nod; she was his best friend, his co-leader, and he wouldn’t let her face this alone. Hesitance melted into unspoken appreciation. Mistakes had been made and apologies had never been offered, but this was about their people. No matter how stupid and spurned and full of shame Bellamy felt, this was about making sure Clarke lived. 

“We have a lot to discuss,” Kane said, a fake cough punctuating his words to draw Bellamy and Clarke’s attention. “But we need to prioritize.” His head included towards Abby who gave a sharp nod. She didn’t seem satisfied with how things were unfurling, but there was a resignation on her face that told Bellamy that she was through fighting this. “If the Commander is calling a meeting with Clarke, it would be unwise to decline.”

Unwise, Bellamy thought, tasting the humorous understatement of the word. The only wise choice, at this point, was launching themselves back into space and trying to land somewhere where everyone wasn’t trying to kill each other.


	9. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Ideas were tossed around and talking points were refined, logistics were worked out and contingencies were discussed. In fact, Clarke was pretty sure that even Bellamy was warming up to the plan. He asked questions and nodded along to her answers and, for a second, everything felt familiar. It was like they were back in charge, feeding off one another, making plans that would finally protect their people.

That feeling of camaraderie ended with the meeting.

“Can we talk for a minute?” Bellamy asked, catching up to Clarke and falling into step beside her as she wound down a long corridor.

“We’re talking,” Clarke said, matter-of-factly.

Now that she was alone with him, his words from two days ago rattled through her brain: _you don’t make decisions here anymore and that’s a good thing because when you do people die._ He had said it with such venom. And the worst part was that it was true.

“I was scared.” Bellamy’s face was serious.

Clarke spun; they were standing in the middle of the corridor, facing one another now. She could see the truth in his words. He seemed to be struggling with the admission, fingers running over the hilt of the knife at his side as though he could cut away the fear.

“I know you’re scared for Octavia,” Clarke said, “but she’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

The struggle evaporated from Bellamy’s face in an instant, replaced by pure disbelief. “I know she’s strong,” Bellamy said, voice low. There was an edge to it that told Clarke he had more to say, an edge that told her that he was trying to avoid another argument. She wanted the same, equally tired of fighting him, so she remained silent as he worked out his next words. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“That’s why I need you.” Reaching out to grasp Bellamy’s forearm, Clarke clung to him even as he tensed under her touch. She hoped it might steady her as it had done in the rover. “If things go wrong,” she couldn’t bring herself to say the words _kill_ or _die_ , “you have to get Octavia out of there.”

“If things go wrong?” The words were slow and carefully formed as they passed his lips. Despair threatened Clarke as she realized they were wading back into the same water they had been treading for days now. “You mean if Lexa kills you?”

Clarke hadn’t planned on telling Bellamy the full extent of the plan, but she also hadn’t expected the Commander to be the one requesting a meeting. She thought she would have more control over location and timing, over who needed to know what. Now, the uncertainty battered the fortifications of her mind, eroding her resolve and tearing apart her ability to keep her words corralled behind her lips. “If Octavia kills me.”

Every muscle in Bellamy’s body visibly coiled. His expression made Clarke feel like she had grown a second head; the ache at her temples made her think that maybe she had sprouted one just like that first mutated deer she had spotted in the woods. His entire body seemed to vibrate under her fingers, still latched onto his arm like a lifeline, and Clarke wanted nothing more than to take the words back.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” Accusation filled his tone. His entire body jumped into action, ripping out of Clarke’s grip, stumbling backward as though he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. “Did you think I’d let Octavia kill you?” He paused. “Did you think I could walk away from you?”

Clarke took a shaky breath before speaking. Her words came out calm and even – totally at odds with the turmoil roiling in her stomach. “Your sister, your responsibility.” She knew the words were as much part of Bellamy as his freckles and he confidence with which he held a gun; his mother had repeated them and forced him to recite them back for sixteen years. She had caught him before, dozing off and murmuring the words like a lifeline. “I knew you’d protect her. That’s all I needed.”

“My sister, my responsibility,” Bellamy scoffed, derision coloring his countenance. Clarke tilted her own head in confusion; she had never heard him say those words with such venom. “She’s not my only responsibility, Clarke.”

The words lit a fuse; something shifted and Clarke couldn’t find the right response. She could argue with Bellamy about logistics all day; she could whisper about feelings and she had cried on his shoulder, slept in his arms, tended his wounds. This was different and she wasn’t prepared. Her plans had relied on Bellamy’s loyalty to Octavia above anyone else, including her.

Clarke shifted from foot to foot and began to turn away in an attempt to decompress, but Bellamy stepped closer. The intensity in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way the air buzzed – it clouded her mind and made her feel weak, vulnerable. Those were the two feelings she had spent so long running from, denying, and, now, they stung her skin and filled her lungs like acid fog.

Bellamy took another step and Clarke’s back bumped into the wall, a metal rivet digging into her spine. Bellamy’s hands planted on either side of her head and he leaned in. He towered over her and blotted out everything else.

“You are my responsibility, Clarke.” He took a deep breath and said, “I take that seriously whether you care about your life or mine or Octavia’s.”

Clarke wanted to say something to snuff out the fire threatening to consume her, but she felt like her tongue had been stolen by some long-dormant part of her that was too busy mapping the features of Bellamy’s face – the curls hanging dangerously close to his eyes, the rough stubble on his jawline, the fullness of his lips set even as they set in a determined line.

“You’re not going to die.” His words had a finality that almost made Clarke believe him; it was the tone that made people want to trust Bellamy Blake. It was the same tone as _whatever the hell we want_ and _let the privileged do the work_ , but also the tone of _together_ , of pulling the lever that forever changed things. “Not at Lexa’s hands or Octavia’s.”

She wanted to place her life in his hands and let him take responsibility, but she couldn’t. It took her a long moment before she found her words. When she spoke, she forced herself to look into his eyes, pupils blown. “I’m responsible for me. You focus on Octavia.”

Placing her palms on Bellamy’s chest, she pushed. It was hard when all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around his shoulders and inhale the gunpowder and leather scent of his neck.

Ducking around him, Clarke hurried up the corridor, embracing an easy numbness.

She couldn’t let emotions get the better of her; she couldn’t let Bellamy’s emotions keep chipping away at the hard wall around her heart. Whatever loyalty he felt to their days of co-leadership, easy friendship and platonic intimacy had to be secondary to his years of loyalty to his sister. If he prioritized the wrong person, the plan wouldn’t work and their people would be at risk.

Their people had to come first. And that meant Octavia had to come first.

* * *

They left in a small group left the next day.

Clarke and Octavia rode horses they would take to the meeting with Lexa. Bellamy drove the rover, two Guards solemnly accompanying him.

The plan was carefully laid out and had been discussed at length. They would trek to a clearing near the meeting sight, set up an overnight camp, and, then, Clarke and Octavia would continue on horseback in the early morning hours to arrive by dawn – the meeting time Lexa had scrawled on the note. Bellamy would sneak up on foot, getting as close as possible without being spotted and he would get Octavia out no matter what.

Clarke had sought him out the previous night and made him swear it. He had, shoulders slumping in resignation. Before they left that morning, she made him promise again. This time his shoulders were squared and his voice strong. That was when Clarke knew he would keep his word.

Arriving at the campsite, they made quick work of scouting the perimeter, pitching two small tents, and creating a fire under a small rock ledge that Octavia assured them would go undetected.

As long as Clarke was moving, strategizing, things were easy.

When all the work was done, things got hard.

With the sun setting and nothing left to occupy her mind, her thoughts became enemies crouched in the shadows of the fire waiting to deliver a killing blow.

She wondered, staring into the fire, if death might actually be easier than the guilt. It was a thought she had never allowed herself and it scared her how easy it would be to accept. She had spent three months running to avoid facing what she had done; she had pursued this plan so doggedly to avoid facing life after Mount Weather. Now, she had no choice – tomorrow, she would either die or come out on the other side facing a whole new world.

She was so consumed in thought, staring at the fire, that she didn’t notice when Octavia ducked into one of the small tents or when the Guards set up a rotation on the edges of camp.

She didn’t notice when Bellamy sat down beside her until she saw the small flask. He held it out and shook it as though letting her know it was hers for the taking. Clarke glanced up at him; he was staring at her. His gaze didn’t falter as she wrapped her fingers around the flask and lifted it to her lips. She drank deeply, relishing the burn sliding over her tongue and down her throat. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she passed it back to Bellamy who finally looked away, taking his own deep swig.

There was too much to say and simultaneously nothing. He had made his promises and she had made up her mind. Anything that happened now, anything that was said, would only hurt. Clarke knew that like it was etched into her flesh, so, instead of speaking, she plucked the flask out of Bellamy’s hand; if she had any hope of sleep before the meeting, moonshine was her best bet.

“What was your life like?” Bellamy’s voice hummed just above the crackle of the fire, almost lost to the chirping bugs filling the night with music. His fingers dug roughly into his thigh and Clarke wanted to reach out, stroke his forearm until his fingers relaxed.

She knew what he meant, of course; he was asking about the Ark. They had only ever talked about it in passing – about his mom and her dad, about the Guard and medical.

It had only been a few months since they had come to the ground and only a year before that Clarke was a medical apprentice. It felt like a lifetime. She had to think: what details were important in response to a question like this? Her work? Her education? Her hobbies? It was all floated along with her father.

“I didn’t have to kill anybody,” Clarke finally said. It was the best she could do.

“I tried to kill someone. Guess I wasn’t good at it.” There was a joking nature to the comment and a smile tugged at Clarke’s lips in response to the absurdity of it all.

“I guess it was easy most of the time.” For the first time in a year and a half, she could remember the joy she had felt when she and Wells performed for Unity Day; when she was accepted to apprentice in medical; when she watched old television shows and sports matches with her father and Jaha. “I know we were lucky.” Clarke paused, remembering the word Bellamy had applied to it. “Privileged.” Bellamy’s lips quirked up at the word. “But when I think of the Ark, I see my father being floated. It replays over and over.”

“That happens with my mom,” Bellamy admitted, glancing back towards the tent where Octavia had retired for the night. “I’m glad O didn’t have to see it.”

“The Ark sucked.”

Bellamy laughed at that, a real and deep laugh that shook his shoulders. “You said it, Princess.” He picked up the flask and drank deeply. “Cheers.” He passed the flask to Clarke.

She cupped it in her hands but didn’t drink. “Tell me something about your life up there.” Clarke looked up at the sky as though she might be able to catch a glimpse of whatever was left of the Ark, floating in space like a monument to their failures.

Bellamy leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the stars hanging overhead. He looked like a statue from one of the books he kept on his desk. “I don’t know if I hade a life.” His jaw tensed and his eyes went far-off as though reliving and sorting through memories.

Clarke was content to watch him as he decided how much to disclose; she had been avoiding looking at him too close recently, afraid of what she might see.

After he had overwhelmed and short-circuited her brain in the hall, arms bracketing her, hovering close enough she could feel the heat radiating off her body, an awful revelation had occurred to her – she was in love with Bellamy Blake and it was going to get someone killed.

Afraid of accidentally telling him, of derailing the plan – and also a little afraid of rejection – she had stayed up the previous night, trying to will it away. Now, with the possibility of death looming, Clarke let herself gaze at him; she let herself memorize the tiny scars flecking his neck and the dimple on his chin.

Finally, Bellamy said, “Everything I did was to protect Octavia.” A rough breath shook his shoulders. “I didn’t have friends because friends want to visit and I had to teach Octavia in the evenings anyways.” He shrugged as though it didn’t bother him, but Clarke could see the little boy behind the façade who had, very clearly, wanted a friend. “I joined the Guard so I could predict the inspections.” A bitter smile tugged at his lips and he said, “I wanted to be an archivist.”

A smile tugged at Clarke’s lips. It should have seemed foreign, but it was so easy to imagine that Bellamy – tucked behind a desk, clicking through old files and categorizing them, weaving them together and adding new documents as he unearthed them.

Clarke had known Bellamy’s life was largely dictated by his responsibility for his sister, but she hadn’t fully realized the extent.

“Is the ground better?” Clarke asked, voice going quiet. That was one of her own dilemmas; most of the time the answer was an easy _yes_ , but sometimes everything felt hopeless and she was sure it was worse.

“Ask me tomorrow.” Bellamy’s eyes dropped from the stars to Clarke’s face.

There was something behind the words that made Clarke shiver.

She leaned back, tilting her head to the sky. The stars dangled overhead like small jewels and the moon was bright and full. It was one of the first sights on Earth that had been able to drown out her fear.

Clarke shifted after a moment in an attempt to get more comfortable and felt her arm pressed up against Bellamy’s. He tensed and Clarke’s heart sped up, but she didn’t move away. She held herself very still until she felt Bellamy’s fingers trailing softly over the back of her hand.

It might have been the possibility that this would be her last chance or because she’d been drinking or because the sky was the real intoxicant, but she shifted her hand, capturing his fingers in hers. His hand was warm and calloused and, when he wove his fingers through hers, it felt like home.

The warmth of the fire licked at the air around them creating a bubble where Clarke could what was coming – a bubble where she could forget Bellamy’s hasty retreat last time they fell asleep next to each. That forgetfulness lulled her into a comfortable sleep, fingers woven together, shoulders pressed against one another’s, faces turned to the sky.

* * *

The soft chittering of small rodents and the cool breeze brushing through the clearing pulled Clarke out of sleep only a few hours after it pulled her in.

Slowly awakening, she became aware of the firm pillow on which her head was resting, then the smell of moonshine and earth. The rhythmic rise and fall under her head attempting to pull her back into sleep. It was tempting even as Clarke flexed her fingers, releasing a handful of fabric. The realization that she was resting on Bellamy’s chest, her fingers – previously curled into his shirt – now splayed across his stomach, thwarted any plans to succumb to the pull of sleep. Bare flesh radiated heat that Clarke greedily consumed, fingers pressing more firmly for purchase as though this moment in the woods might be a dream.

It took Clarke a long moment to work up the nerve to crack one eye open and survey her surroundings. It was still dark, illuminated by only the moon and the small, dying fire, now more smoke than flame.

She tried to keep her breathing even so as not to disturb Bellamy; it was wrong and messy and, Clarke knew, dangerous above all else, a threat to the plan and her own sanity. But she couldn’t force herself to pull away. She felt safe; that was why she had invited him to stay that night he had wandered into her room, and, even though he had run from her after that, she couldn’t muster the esteem to run from him now.

So, she laid there, watching the dying embers of the fire for a long stretch of time. She counted Bellamy’s breaths and listened to his heartbeat. She danced her fingers carefully over his stomach, glancing them light enough she hoped he couldn’t feel them.

His smell carried her away through memories of other stolen moments – moments from before Mount Weather had changed everything; sitting in her tent, Bellamy fletching arrows and Clarke copying maps. They kept their hands busy and didn’t often talk back then, but it was comfortable and easy – easier than the fighting and yelling and conniving of their relationship outside the tent.

The memory of Bellamy teaching her to whittle came unbidden. She had been looking over his shoulder, her own hand cramping from sketching the tiny details on the map laid out across her lap. He had looked back and offered her a rare, private smile and asked if she wanted to learn. She had remembered how invigorating it was to learn to shoot with Bellamy and readily agreed. He had demonstrated how to avoid cracking the wood and the best technique to avoid tiring her hands; he had talked with animated eyes about how to pick the wood and which of her knives she should use. Selflessly, he had handed her the half-finished wooden blade and explained it wasn’t as good as her metal blades, but would do in a pinch. She had clumsily attempted to finish it, following Bellamy’s instructions while he surveyed the maps she had drawn. It came out lopsided and weighted incorrectly with a dull edge that would have been useless in a fight. Despite her failure, Bellamy had offered reassurances in a soft tone and tucked it under her bedroll with a comment about never being too prepared.

Whittling had become an outlet, of sorts, in her three months in exile. She told herself over and over that it was about being prepared, but the only time she had ever used one of those wooden blades was when Roan attacked – when the thought of losing Bellamy again had felt like having her heart shredded. The truth became crystal clear and undeniable now; it was just another small thing she had done to feel close to Bellamy while they were so far apart.

As though sensing her thoughts – that primal desire for closeness – Bellamy’s fingers tightened, pressing into Clarke’s side.

It only lasted a second before his fingers relaxed and began trailing up her side. A shiver passed down Clarke’s spine as they ghosted back down her arm. Heart racing, she was afraid to move for fear he would run again. His fingers trailed back up her arm and began to trace soft patterns over her back. Her fingers, still splayed across his stomach, pressed down firmer when his fingers dipped across her lower back, brushing bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.

A heavy exhale ruffled Clarke’s hair and she tensed. She wasn’t ready for this to be over.

Bellamy’s hand settled on her hip. The contact offered Clarke courage.

She tilted her head up, shifting so she could place her chin on his chest and look into his eyes. Alarm bells sounded in Clarke’s head, but she ignored them, meeting his gaze. It stole her breath and drowned out the alarm. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and framed by thick black eyelashes.

Neither spoke.

Clarke allowed her fingers to trail, tentatively, over Bellamy’s side. The fingers on her hip tightened, digging in, and he let out a rough breath. “We should stop,” Bellamy said, voice deep and rumbling. His eyes slid closed and he tilted his head back, shaking it slightly. Clarke couldn’t help skimming her fingers back up his side until they rested on the edge of his jaw.

“We should,” she agreed.

“I don’t want to,” Bellamy said, eyes opening to look at Clarke. It was an admission that terrified her more than his eyes or his fingers or his lips because they had never put whatever buzzed between them into words quite like this. Clarke had never allowed herself to think of it so outright.

Clarke’s fingers on Bellamy’s jaw trailed up to brush away the curls spilling over his forehead and she breathed, “Neither do I.”

There was a stretch of silence that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. Anything else she said would be the equivalent of stepping over the precipice, plunging into unknown, murky, and dangerous waters.

They were friends, Clarke reminded herself – best friends – and whatever this electricity was coursing between them came out of that. It came out of a place of fear. She had experienced that before – with Lexa. Taking that dive, now, with Bellamy wasn’t something Clarke was prepared for, but she also wasn’t strong enough to push him away.

Relief, tinged with the barest disappointment, washed over Clarke when Octavia’s voice hit her ears. “You two constantly surprise me.”

They pulled apart in a fast flurry of motion, both sitting up abruptly.

The sudden absence of Bellamy’s heat made Clarke painfully aware of the chill wrapping around her shoulders and sinking into her bones.

“Leave it, O.” Bellamy’s voice was low with warning.

She held her hands out, palm visible in a truce, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she settled onto the ground beside the fire. She pulled her knees to her chest and tucked her chin on top of them. Clarke was struck by how vulnerable she looked like this. The little sister Bellamy felt responsible for had replaced the warrior. It was as though the cover of night had brought out something that she typically kept hidden.

Bellamy reached for the flask, cast off to his side, and held it out to Octavia. She gripped it firmly for a long second before bringing it to her lips.

They spent a long time like that. The three of them passing the flask back and forth, staring into the fire, and waiting; even if they all survived, their lives would change. There was no going back to the dropship days – to the people they had been before Mount Weather. For just a moment, though, they were in a bubble where they could pretend to be the people they had once been.

When Octavia finally rose to her feet, she looked between Bellamy and Clarke with a serious expression – the warrior had replaced the sister. “You should say your goodbyes.”

Before they could respond, she was striding towards the horses, stroking Helios’ muzzle, resolutely facing away from them.

Clarke could see the discomfort in Bellamy’s eyes, so she spoke first. “Keep her safe.”

“Keep yourself safe,” Bellamy said, discomfort replaced by a seriousness that helped steel Clarke’s nerves.

Neither was willing to say _goodbye_ – to admit out loud that this might be their last moment together – but just before Clarke pulled herself to her feet, Bellamy brushed his knuckles over her forearm with a soft gentleness that felt like goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is coming out a little late, but I have a good reason! I got a promotion at work (yay!) and it is taking up all my free time (boo!). Moving forward, I am going to shift my update schedule to Mondays and Fridays only which should be super doable now that I've settled into my new role.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the intimacy in this chapter (a nice little reprieve from all the angst I've been throwing at you!). It tugged at my heartstrings, y'all! Also, more Octavia is never bad and you will be getting A LOT of Octavia next chapter!


	10. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

The Commander’s tent was made of brown hide emblazoned with symbols on all sides. What Clarke could only identify as _biohazard_ symbols marked either side of the entrance; three crescent moons backed up against one another forming the symbol they used on the Ark to denote medical waste. Two guards were stationed at the entrance, one on either side of the red tent flaps. No one else was in sight.

That didn’t, Clarke reminded herself, mean others weren’t waiting in the trees or behind the rock outcroppings. Her heart stuttered, eyes darting to the rock outcropping they agreed Bellamy would wait behind. If Lexa had the same idea – Clarke shoved away the thought, tasting the bile threatening to rise up her throat. If she put him in danger again for Lexa – another thought she couldn’t let herself give life.

“We leave the horses here,” Octavia said, interrupting Clarke’s thoughts with a jab of her finger in the direction of a small gap in the trees to the right of the tent. “Bellamy will be up there.” Her voice was barely audible. She tilted her head slightly; it was barely enough to register, but Clarke had already found the gap and nodded.

She could feel the guard’s eyes following their movements as they dismounted and looped closer to the front of the tent. As they approached, the guards called an alert in Trigedasleng.

A few silent seconds passed before Lexa responded.

The guards moved aside at her command and lifted the tent flaps.

“Only Clarke.”

Clarke recoiled, her entire body telling her to run, not to look back. She hadn’t heard that voice in months and, despite all her preparations for this moment, she faltered when Lexa stepped forward. It wasn’t death she was afraid of now, but something else. Some painful twist as memories surged forward; they had been allies, lovers, and, now, they were nothing.

“I want Octavia to come,” Clarke said, planting her feet in refusal of the command.

The guards bristled at the casual challenge and their blades shifted as though awaiting a command to dispose of her and her companion.

The command didn’t come. Instead, Lexa stepped forward, hovering at the threshold of the tent with guarded eyes. They trailed over her, then Octavia before she shook her head. “My guards will remain outside. Yours should as well. This is a friendly meeting, Clarke.” Her tone was level, but the condescending edge was impossible to miss. It was the tone she had always used with Clarke when she thought she was offering sage wisdom.

“It can’t be friendly,” Clarke said, forcing herself not to break eye contact even as the guards inched closer, herding she and Octavia in. “You have a bounty on my head.”

Lexa seemed to consider what Clarke had said before nodding. “I understand what that looks like.” Her voice was diplomatic. “If you’ll come inside,” she coaxed, holding the tent flap wider, “I’ll explain.”

Clarke pretended to consider the offer. They had planned for this, hoping the pause would demonstrate their strength, their resolve. If it didn’t, she and Octavia could easily take out the guards; all Octavia had to do after was draw a blade across Clarke’s neck and run. She had good odds as long Bellamy held Lexa down with gunfire – like the sniper at Tondc, Octavia had said with a bitterness that felt like salt being rubbed into a wound.

“Octavia is neutral.” Clarke watched closely, monitoring Lexa’s response. “She’s here for Lincoln.”

After a short silence, Lexa said, “I understand that this is a deception.” Clarke’s blood rushed in her ears, fight or flight response kicking in, but she focused on keeping her hands still and her face neutral. “But, if she leaves her weapons, I will allow it.”

Clarke looked at Octavia, who was scowling at the guard closest to her, and nodded. They had anticipated this as well and each wore a hidden blade. Octavia hesitated; Clarke couldn’t tell if it was a planned hesitation or true discomfort with being separated from her sword, gifted by Indra in what felt like a different lifetime.

With the seriousness of a warrior, she lifted the blade. The guards moved quickly in front of Lexa, their own long blades jutting out towards hers as she hissed, “Don’t touch it.”

She tossed it behind her unceremoniously, eyes never leaving the guards.

“Let them pass,” Lexa ordered.

The guards hesitated before moving aside.

Clarke stepped inside first, followed by Octavia.

The tent was empty save for a bedroll and a couple of scrolls of paper smoothed over a small, collapsible wood table. Early morning light bled through the stitched together hide creating a soft glow and additional light was provided by candles dotted around the ground.

“Azgeda is threatening my Coalition,” Lexa said bluntly. “We appreciate what Bellamy kom Skaikru did at Potomc. I extend that appreciation to you, Clarke.”

Clarke wasn’t sure how to respond. She couldn’t tell the difference between sincerity and deception when it came to Lexa; the Commander was too skilled at the latter and too naturally inclined to the former.

Nonetheless, the mention of Potomc steeled Clarke’s nerves; this was leverage. Bellamy had been stabbed defending the Coalition, defending Trikru. If a war was coming, they deserved the same protection – they needed a mutual and lasting agreement that extended beyond a simple ceasefire.

“Appreciation,” Octavia muttered from behind Clarke, scoffing at the word.

“Octavia,” Clarke warned, watching Lexa’s fingers twitch towards the small knife at her side – an instinct. But they didn’t wrap around the handle.

Octavia stepped forward, then.

“No.” Her eyes were fierce and Clarke thought how right she had been to insist Octavia wasn’t her guard. She wasn’t here for Skaikru, not for Clarke or her brother or their people – she was here for Lincoln. “You abandoned us and put a kill order on Lincoln for having enough honor to stick by his allies. You put a bounty on Clarke’s head for cleaning up your mess. You don’t know the first thing about appreciation.”

Clarke’s body was cold and completely still as Lexa tilted her head. It felt like an eon of contemplative silence passed – Clarke certain she was drawing her last breaths – before Lexa said, “I see.” The words were infused with an edge, but she didn’t produce a weapon. “I understand why you are no longer Indra’s second.”

Octavia’s breath hitched and Clarke felt a sudden rush of relief that they were armed with only small, hidden blades. If she had her sword, Clarke feared Octavia would have lunged at the Commander in that moment.

“That’s not a slight,” Lexa said, voice cool and collected. “Some are leaders. Some are warriors. And some, like Lincoln, are healers. You are something else.” Her eyes trailed over Octavia as though she might solve the riddle before she shook her head. “I will lift Lincoln’s kill order if you allow Clarke and I to speak alone."

Clarke gritted her teeth, watching Octavia’s fingers twitch toward Lexa as though seeking to make an agreement.

There were two paths stretching out in front of them and she knew Octavia wanted to take the guarantee – protection for Lincoln in exchange for Clarke. Clarke wondered if she would have done the same if Bellamy’s safety was on the line; something devastating curled in her stomach telling her she might. It strengthened her resolve that whatever had passed between them the previous night – the intimacy, the revelations – was dangerous.

“You don’t trust me.” Lexa’s eyes darted from Octavia to Clarke and her fingers slid to her waist, wrapping around the hilt of the knife there.

The next few seconds were a blur.

Octavia grabbed Clarke’s waist roughly, pulling her tight against her chest. Her blade pressed against Clarke’s neck dangerously close to her carotid artery. Clarke focused on taking slow and even breaths; if she was going to die, she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. The blade pinched tighter against the soft flesh of her throat as Octavia shifted to get a better angle; a short flick of her wrist would sever both the internal and external artery. If Clarke was lucky, she’d only be conscious for a few seconds after.

Lexa’s eyes were wide and she breathed out the word, “Don’t,” fingers curling tighter around her blade.

“I will kill her. I will have Wanheda’s power,” Octavia said, voice calm and deadly. “And I won’t make the same mistakes Clarke made.”

Clarke’s hands were trembling. She had to push down the instinct to get away, to run. She swallowed, ignoring the scrape of the blade, the first wet droplet of blood sliding down her neck, sticky and warm. She had been in this very position with Roan not long ago. She remembered her words to Bellamy on her first day back – _you don’t get lucky twice._

“Let her go.” The panic edging Lexa’s tone surprised Clarke. She was desperate, Clarke realized, surprised they had gained the upper hand so easily. “Azgeda will hunt you to the end of the earth,” Lexa said. She was clearly speaking to Octavia, trying to talk her down, but her eyes never left Clarke.

“Let them,” Octavia said, tightening her grip on Clarke’s waist. Her steady breathing helped calm the surfacing panic Clarke was battling.

“If you listen to our terms, if you agree,” Clarke said, words forming slowly in an attempt to keep her voice from wavering. Lexa’s eyes shot to Clarke and understanding flickered. She stuck her knife into the wooden table, blade notching into the wood with a dull thud. “Octavia will stand down.”

“You would let her kill you.” Admiration and sadness mixed in her tone. “You’ve changed.”

Clarke couldn’t let herself get bogged down in what she really wanted to say – _you changed me and I risked my best friend’s life because I didn’t know how to love you both at the same time and you said love was weakness so I gave him up, but I tried to hold onto you and you betrayed me and now I don’t know how to love him so maybe letting his sister kill me in front of you makes sense._

None of that was useful and it didn’t even make sense to Clarke as she thought it. So, instead, she said, “I want the bounty removed.”

“Done,” Lexa said, exhaling loudly as though that was her first demand as well. She turned her eyes on Octavia, composure slipping back over her features. “Now,” she said, regality slipping into her tone. “Let her go.”

Octavia didn’t. “Too easy,” she said. “Why go for your blade if you were willing to make a deal?”

It was a good question; it was the right question. Clarke silently praised Octavia for asking it, her own mouth too dry to speak.

Lexa reached back, gingerly pulling her knife from the table. Clarke’s eyes tracked her movements. She moved slowly as though they were game animals that might spook at a sudden movement. She lowered the knife to her palm and sliced a steady line across it from thumb to pinky. Black liquid swelled up, unlike anything Clarke had ever seen on the Ark, or the ground.

“A blood oath,” Octavia said, loosening her grip on Clarke’s waist without relaxing the knife – an insurance policy in case this was a trick.

There was a second of tense silence before Octavia started laughing, a rich and deep sound of relief. Clarke thought that maybe they had all finally lost their minds, but waited, watching the scene unravel.

“I did not want to place the bounty. Queen Nia began hunting you.” Lexa’s watched Clarke, black blood dripping from her palm and staining the dirt. “I sent Roan,” she admitted, “to bring you to me so I could place you under my protection. Your people found you first. I don’t begrudge them that.”

Roan had been working for Lexa, not Azgeda. It was a shocking revelation and Clarke hyper-fixated on that, reconstructing their encounter. She felt ignorant for missing the signs; he had so willingly let Monty and Kane go, he hadn’t threatened Bellamy even when he disobeyed the order to drop his gun. It all became crystal clear in Clarke’s mind – Lexa had forbidden him from harming Skaikru.

“I will lift Lincoln’s kill order, but he’s not welcome in Polis. If I see him,” Lexa continued, eyes trailing to Octavia, “I will personally end his life.”

Octavia’s arm jumped, blade scraping the skin on Clarke’s neck.

“I will make this blood oath to both of you.” Lexa watched the knife with an unrivaled solemnity. “Then, I will speak to Clarke alone.”

Clarke took a rough breath and said, “Let me go.”

Octavia hesitated, but, after a long second, she relaxed, the knife falling away from Clarke’s neck. She watched as Octavia tucked the knife back into her pocket and withdrew a dagger with an exquisite handle; it was an antler of some sort with small bits of colored glass inlaid. The faux jewels glinted, reflecting the light, as she shifted it to her dominant hand. It wasn’t one of the blades she and Clarke sharpened together that morning and it didn’t surprise Clarke; Octavia was a survivor and she always had something up her sleeve. A fleeting question shot through Clarke’s mind; was this a lesson Bellamy had taught her or one she had taught him?

Octavia drew the blade across her palm, a thin slice appearing, blood moving to the surface in crimson droplets before welling more readily.

She flipped the blade, extending it to Clarke who wrapped her fingers around it in a tight grip. She took a deep breath and drug it across her palm. She didn’t press deep and the cut was shorter than those on the other two women’s hands; she was all too familiar with the kind of damage one could do with a blade to the palm. Blood prickled at the surface, seeping out slowly until a small pool had formed in her palm.

Lexa recited a few reverent sentences in Trigedasleng before slicing her other palm, the same black blood spilling from this wound as the first. She held one hand out to Clarke and the other to Octavia. Black blood mixed with deep crimson. It stung slightly, but the hope building inside Clarke blocked out the pain of wound rubbing on wound. Bridging a divide, Clarke thought, withdrawing her now-smudged palm.

Octavia wiped her hand on her pants and tore off a strip of her shirt, wrapping her palm and looking at Clarke expectantly. Clarke nodded, watching Octavia leave, listening for movement from the guards outside.

When no sound came, she turned back to Lexa. She was holding out a clean grey cloth like a peace offering. Clarke eyes it suspiciously and Lexa tilted her head. “Even now, you hesitate.”

“You betrayed my people,” Clarke spat, the anger she had been keeping in check rearing its head now that she and Lexa were alone, now that murdering her would be breaking an oath instead of fulfilling a promise. “You left them to die.”

“I won’t apologize for saving my people.”

Clarke wanted to scream. She wanted to scream until Lexa understood what that betrayal meant; they could have saved everyone. Innocent children, allies in the Mountain, didn’t have to die.

“I will apologize for hurting you, Clarke.”

“I don’t need your apology.” Her voice came out less confident than she hoped. There was a wobble on the end and her lip quivered. She bit it, teeth rubbing the soft skin raw in an attempt to push down the encroaching emotions. “Why did you invite me here?”

Lexa’s lips pulled down at the corners for just a second before settling back into a thin line. She gestured for Clarke to take the cloth. Clarke accepted, telling herself that it was to prevent infection. Wrapping the cloth around her palm, she watched Lexa do the same with two strips of brown cloth, patches of stained black blood evident despite the dark color.

Both bandaged, Lexa nodded towards the small table, indicating Clarke should approach. On it was a small map of all twelve clans and their territorial boundaries, major villages, and a small symbol representing each clan. In the center of the Trikru territory was a small, almost circular bit of land labeled _Skaikru_. Arkadia, Clarke realized as she traced the familiar boundary lines.

“I wish to make Skaikru the thirteenth clan.”

The words were matter-of-fact and everything slid into place like a vast puzzle finally solved. Anger rose to a fever pitch, twisting violently in Clarke’s chest. “I made you look weak at Mount Weather, and now the Ice Nation is exploiting that. So, what?” Clarke asked rhetorically, stepping forward, crowding Lexa. “Wanheda bows before you and you use my people as a shield? We fight another war for you?”

Lexa didn’t respond to the anger, tone even as she said, “Your people would be safe.”

Clarke’s pulse thrummed loud in her ears. _Safe,_ she wanted to scoff. How could Lexa guarantee her people’s safety? Hadn’t she done that before only to turn on them at the last minute?

Before she could think through her actions, Clarke darted forward, pressing her knife against Lexa’s throat. The image of the rough wound on Bellamy’s hip blazed behind her eyes, that feeling of terror when she had seen the blood. It was Lexa’s fault; all of it.

There was no fear in Lexa’s expression and she didn’t shrink back. She stared evenly at Clarke and said, “It won’t make you hate yourself less, but if taking my life is what you need, my spirit will find the next Commander and they will offer you this deal. I swear it, Clarke.”

Too much information was suddenly swirling through Clarke’s brain, illogical and overwhelming. Lexa’s willingness to die, her promise of protection, her assuredness that the next Commander would honor this deal – none of it made sense.

The only thing Clarke knew was that words were spilling off her tongue too fast and slippery to stop. “I will never stop hating myself for what I did.” Her voice was low and venomous. “And I will never stop hating you for betraying us.”

“What would you have done if their leader had offered you the deal?” Lexa asked, eyes searching Clarke’s face. “Save your people at the price of mine – would you have really chosen differently?”

“I don’t betray my friends.”

Clarke’s blade bit into Lexa’s throat. The black droplet that slid down the column of her throat slammed Clarke back into reality; the gravity of what she was doing hit her like a spear. This was a transgression she couldn’t take back and she was reminded of Bellamy’s words – when she was in charge, people died. They had been spat in anger and he had apologized, head hung low in shame. But they were true and, now she realized, he shouldn’t have apologized.

“But you did. You had friends in Mount Weather.”

“Those deaths are on you, too. The only difference is you have no honor and I had no choice.”

“Perhaps,” Lexa conceded, but her tone didn’t sound like a real concession and did little to ease Clarke’s shaky anger. “This is personal. You’re letting your heart rule your head.”

“Like hell I am.” There was venom in her tone even as the voice inside her head whispered that there was truth in the admonition. The line between her own broken heart and the anger she held for the way her people had been treated – as expendable – had blurred a long time ago. The trust was, she didn’t know how to tease out the difference anymore.

“No clan would move against you,” Lexa said. “You would have recognized territory and a seat at Polis.”

Clarke contemplated this, trying to focus on her head, trying to rationalize the information before her heart could lead her astray again.

Her rationalizations weren’t what finally allowed to drop the blade, however; it was the way her hand shook when Lexa said, “Kill me. See if it absolves you, Clarke.”

She slowly pulled the blade away. Free, Lexa turned away – a vulnerable gesture.

Clarke thought she saw her shoulders shake for just a second before she said, “You have one week. Our Riders will send information about the summit and you’ll tell them your choice.”

The words felt like a dismissal, but Clarke didn’t move. There was something else she should say – something on the tip of her tongue. Sliding the knife back into its sheath at her waist, Clarke was painfully aware of the way her lip trembled with unshed tears; they were angry tears, she reassured herself, but the ache in her chest said otherwise.

“You should leave,” Lexa said turning back to Clarke. “I’m sure your Bellamy is getting worried.”

Clarke’s breathing hitched and her heart seized, the ache replaced by searing pain.

“Yes,” Lexa said, coolly. “I spotted him this morning. Behind the rock outcropping.”

Clarke’s muscles coiled. She needed to find Bellamy – now. She needed to make sure he wasn’t hurt and she swore, silently, that she would show Lexa what Wanheda was capable of if she had hurt him.

Her thoughts were spiraling, but Lexa’s voice came even and calm. “He’s safe.”

Lexa’s eyes were watchful and Clarke tried not to show her weakness, but, nonetheless, her shoulders uncoiled and her chest loosened, breathing came easier. Her eyes closed for just a second as she realized the weight of her terror.

“I still believe love to be weakness,” Lexa whispered, moving closer now. A deep and sad longing filled her eyes. “But I do envy you.”

Clarke didn’t know what to make of the comment. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She didn’t know how to look at the woman who had broken her heart and talk about love. She didn’t know how to share Bellamy with Lexa in this way. She wasn’t even sure how to talk about Bellamy and love in the same sentence. It was all too vulnerable – dangerous.

When Clarke didn’t respond, Lexa leaned forward and pressed a short kiss to her cheek. It stung, warm and bitter. Resolute. It felt like goodbye, like being released from her connection to Lexa, like she might finally be able to start healing her broken bits.

“You should leave, Clarke.” Lexa stepped back as she spoke. “I hope to see you in a week.”

Clarke didn’t respond as she ducked out of the tent and into the clearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I love Lexa with my entire heart and I just want the best for her always! She's a badass with the softest heart and... like... no wonder Clarke loves/loved both her and Bellamy - aren't they similar in so many ways?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed because this was such fun to write! Also - lots of direct quotes in here pulled from the scripts (which is always fun)!


	11. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

_This was a bad idea._

That fact had worked its way into Bellamy’s bones over the last hour. He regretted caving to Clarke’s demands, promising that he wouldn’t interfere – that he would only swoop in and clean up the pieces once all was lost. It wasn’t just a bad idea; it was reckless and he wanted to yell it from the outcropping he was posted behind so that everybody on the ground knew just how much he hated this plan.

When Octavia stumbled out of the tent, Bellamy tensed.

Clarke was dead, he thought, inching forward, his entire limbs went numb and a profound ache wrapping around his heart like a fist.

Shifting the rifle, staring down the scope, Bellamy forced himself to remain very still.

Octavia would give a signal if something was wrong, he reassured himself, watching her walk calmly to her discarded sword, pick it up, and sheathe it before she pulled out a knife, letting it dangle at her side. Her palm, now visible, was wrapped in a dirty blood-soaked cloth.

For a split second, all he could see was red, the same crimson color as her blood.

_My sister, my responsibility._

_This was a bad idea._

Urgency filled Bellamy, twisting in his stomach, as he ran through the scenario in front of him. He could kill the two guards from here and between Octavia and Clarke, the Commander would be incapacitated by the time he got to the clearing. Replaying that scenario, reassuring himself that it wasn’t too late, was the only thing that kept his feet rooted in place; each time it replayed, he reminded himself of the small minutia – the margin of error – and planned minor tweaks to avoid catastrophe. The analytical process helped uncurl the knot in his stomach and loosen the fist gripping his heart. It helped him focus.

Bellamy waited, rifle trained on the guards, for a wrong move, patience wearing thinner by the second. He didn’t like the way their swords crossed like a gate in front of the tent flap and the leer painting the left guard’s face made Bellamy’s blood boil.

It felt like a lifetime before Clarke appeared.

When she did, Bellamy noticed the strip of cloth around her palm – identical to Octavia’s. Blood stained it and the anger he had tamped down into analytical irritation flared.

Clarke gave no signal, eyes sliding past him as she scanned the horizon. Octavia trailed behind, head turned back to watch the guards.

Bellamy stayed in place, taking deep and steadying breaths, counting as the two mounted their horses and exited the clearing. Satisfied they were out of range, he prepared to slip away from the outcropping and back into the trees.

The Commander stepped out of the tent, then, and look at him. Bellamy froze.

He was far enough to blend back into the trees before she could catch up to him, he reassured himself.

She stared at him for a long moment. He stared back.

Finally, she nodded, an acknowledgment, before jerking her chin in the direction Octavia and Clarke had ridden away, a release. The edges of her lips quirked up for a second before she ducked back into her tent without acknowledging her guards.

A sense of relief washed over Bellamy, cooling the irritation and fortifying his patience for the first time since had brushed his knuckles over Clarke’s arm and let her walk away. Something instinctual told Bellamy that the Commander wasn’t going to pursue him. This was a signal, Bellamy realized – a reminder that she would always be two steps ahead of them.

There was no immediate danger, but his stomach twisted and the fist around his heart was replaced by a spear of self-loathing. He had spotted; he had put them in danger. He was supposed to be responsible – a leader, a protector – and he had failed. He blinked to clear his mind and every time he had failed Octavia, failed Clarke, played behind his eyelids; the times he had been careless when shutting Octavia under the floor, when he lost his grounder army in Mount Weather, and this moment – this moment where he could have gotten them killed.

Bellamy kept low as he slunk back towards the tree line. Concealed by the thick foliage, he turned and began the hike back to the makeshift camp.

Every step placed more distance between himself and the Commander; every step brought him closer to the two people he would give his life for. A pit formed in his stomach and a permanent scowl etched his face.

Pushing aside branches, Bellamy clicked his radio a few times, signaling his position before breaking through the last copse of trees. He stepped into the clearing. The rover created a buffer zone around the stream on one side and the guards formed the rest of the perimeter. They nodded an acknowledgment at Bellamy, eyes snapping back to the trees diligently.

Octavia and Clarke were tending the horses in silence, tying them next to a small stream so they could refuel before continuing back to Arkadia. Bellamy approached slowly, certain they were carrying bad news, sure that the Commander’s detection of his position had ruined everything.

He was careless with his footfalls now that he was inside the perimeter and a stick cracked loud under his booted foot.

Clarke spun, eyes wide with a mix of joy and terror.

Bellamy’s steps faltered as she closed the distance between them, flinging herself at him without warning. He didn’t hesitate to catch her, arms wrapping around her waist as hers encircled his shoulder.

She was mumbling incoherently against his neck and he pulled away to hear her words. “I thought you were dead. When you didn’t come straight back, I thought she had lied to me.” Several more sentences follow; all a mixed variation of those two. Clarke’s fingers trailed over his arms, his chest, his neck, his face as though making sure he was real and uninjured. A trail of longing and shame follow her fingers and, when Bellamy couldn’t stand it anymore, he placed his hands over Clarke’s, pushing her away.

Hurt flitted across her expression, but Bellamy was already dragging his feet, walking towards the stream. He kneeled, splashing water over his face. He vaguely heard Octavia’s voice.

Water dripped down Bellamy’s nose and clung to his eyelashes. He splashed his face again, trying to regain his bearings.

A few more seconds passed before he felt a soft hand on his back. “I’m sorry I put your life in danger again.” Clarke’s voice broke on the last word – _again_ – and shamed flared into frustration that gave way to anger.

Bellamy stood, spinning to face Clarke. He was too close and the hand that had been on his back now rested on his chest. Clarke pulled it away like she had been scorched and stared at him with wide-eyed surprise. “Don’t apologize to me.”

The way her expression crumpled before she regained composure only fueled Bellamy’s feelings of failure. He took a deep breath and stumbled backward, putting space between himself and Clarke.

“What happened?” Bellamy attempted to keep his tone detached and unaffected, but the tension he was feeling bled into it and his tone came out short and demanding. In his peripherals, Octavia was shaking her head.

Clarke opened her mouth, but words didn’t come out. She closed it, swallowed, and then said, “Lexa wants us to be the thirteenth clan.”

The revelation threw Bellamy for a temporary loop. His guilt and shame and self-loathing and the externalization of it all slipped away, replaced by the need for more information. “And?” Bellamy asked. He was back on semi-stable footing. This was something he could do; debriefing was second nature to him at this point. He shifted his stance – wider and stronger.

“We have a week to decide,” Clarke said, looking at Bellamy as though searching for an explanation.

“A week,” Bellamy scoffed. It was a big decision to make in a week and exactly the kind of unreasonable demand he expected from the Commander.

When Clarke didn’t readily offer more information, he glanced at Octavia, but she was once again immersed in tending the horses. Bellamy caught a flash of the bandage on her hand as she fed Helios bits of food from her pockets. His eyes trailed to the matching wound on Clarke’s hand and he reached out, gripping her wrist before he could think it through. He turned it so he could see the red stain on her palm. He kept his eyes there as he asked, “What is this?”

Clarke’s fingers curled over her palm, tips pressing along the edge of the bandage. She flexed her fingers a couple of times as though checking for damage before letting the hand rest open on Bellamy’s palm, face-up. “Blood oath,” she said, tone short and sharp. “She lifted the bounty.” Clarke looked over her shoulder at Octavia and her voice was softer as she said, “And Lincoln’s kill order.”

An unexpected wave of relief washed over Bellamy, dousing and dragging away the remnants of frustration clinging to him.

His fingers ghosted up the back of her hand automatically. Up her arm, running over her bicep before settling at the crook of her neck and shoulder. Clarke leaned into it and smiled up at him. There was a lot left unspoken; her confounding apology and his unspoken guilt. But, when their eyes met, Bellamy realized that none of that was important right now. For now, he could let himself relax into the news that, for a little while, she was safe.

* * *

More meetings. More uncertainty. Time passed in a blur.

Something about the offer wasn’t sitting right with Bellamy and Clarke had echoed his uncertainty.

The Chancellor, and moreover Kane, had seemed enraptured by the prospect, however, likening it to the unification of the stations.

The Ark had worked, Kane stressed several times. Bellamy, each time, forcefully bit his tongue; he wanted to look them all in the eyes and tell them that the Ark had only _worked_ for them because they lived in Alpha Station. They hadn’t experienced the rolling blackouts when temperatures dropped so low that he and Octavia had huddled together draped in other people’s clothes while his mother warmed Guards’ beds for the slightest crumb of intel. They hadn’t experienced the worst of the rationing, of the policing; they hadn’t experienced the almost constant surprise inspections – informal culling, Bellamy realized now.

In this Coalition, Bellamy wanted to make them understand that Skaikru wouldn’t be Alpha Station. Hell, they would be lucky if they were Factory or Mecha. Most likely, they were Polaris waiting to be blown out of the sky.

He couldn’t figure out how to convince them, though. How to say all of that without raising their hackles. Clarke would understand, he knew. She would listen. But she wasn’t the one he needed to convince.

Now, it was late evening on the third day after the meeting and Bellamy had finally found a couple of minutes to decompress. He was sitting at the desk in his room slowly parsing through the thick volume of Greek mythology he had started to make a dent in.

As a child on the Ark, he had voraciously read through the entire library catalogue, downloading one book to his tablet at a time. He shared the tablet with his mother, but she had graciously let him tuck it into his school bag each day. It had been his only escape from the debilitating fear that his entire life was always just a few minutes from falling apart.

When he joined the Guard, he had stopped reading. He finally had friends, a sense of purpose – even if it wasn’t the job he would have chosen for himself. He hadn’t picked reading back up until Octavia dropped this book in his lap two months prior. He was slower now – out of practice. He yearned to get lost in the stories as he once had, but it was difficult with the constant interruptions and his growing responsibilities.

Frustration grew as he read the same passage over, forgetting what he read as fast as he read it.

He was about to slam the book closed when Clarke appeared at his door.

He had left it cracked open in case anyone needed him. He hadn’t expected Clarke to be the person seeking him out. Their relationship had been strained recently; the stress of the upcoming summit had piled onto the mound of personal baggage already floating between them and left them both fumbling for words. Small touches had all but disappeared and the memory of their quiet intimacy by the fire – only three days ago – felt fuzzy to Bellamy.

Bellamy shut his book carefully and crafted his face into an engaged expression. He would solve whatever disaster she was about to drop into his lap and wait for the next one to arrive at his door.

When he turned, however, there was no urgency in Clarke’s eyes.

She clutched her sketchbook to her chest and the small nub of a pencil rested behind her ear. A smile involuntarily spread over Bellamy’s lips at this familiar sleepy Clarke seeking out company. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head, biting down on her lip as she took an uncertain step inside. “I know we have a lot to do.” Her words came out quick like she was making sure Bellamy knew that she was aware of their shared responsibilities, that she wasn’t shirking them by being here. Bellamy wanted to point at his own leisure reading and tell her he understood, but she was already muttering, “It’s stupid,” hand reaching back for the door like she planned to flee. 

“You can’t always be the hero,” Bellamy interjected before she could talk herself into leaving, into foregoing another night of sleep. There were heavy bags and dark circles under her eyes and he was pretty sure she hadn’t eaten a real meal since the meeting with Lexa. The thought awoke the caregiver inside of Bellamy and he pointed to the small cubby beside his bed. “Snacks are in there.”

Clarke’s eyes widened and she looked down at her stomach as though just realizing her hunger. A small smile tugged at her lips as she crossed the room. Dropping her sketchbook haphazardly on his bed, she reached into the cubby and withdrew a small packet of dried fruits and nuts.

He had never dipped into this stash of food himself, but years of sharing rations had made him a master at secreting away food. It had started when Octavia was little. She would toddle up to him, clutching her stomach and silently crying. Devastated, Bellamy had started making little packets from his half of the rations. He had stored them around their pod and would produce them when she started crying.

That had been a desperate time and it had never been comforting – only scary as he watched his rail-thin sister stuff bits of bread into her mouth, swallowing without chewing, crying the entire time.

Now, Clarke settled onto his bed, tucking one leg under herself, shoveling handfuls of food into her mouth. It was oddly and profoundly comforting. His mind felt like it slowed down and his shoulders dropped into an easy posture. He liked taking care of people; he liked taking care of Clarke – the self-sacrificing, independent woman who had sought him out for comfort.

Clarke glanced up as she tossed the last bite into her mouth. Bellamy would have sworn a soft blush etched over her features. He didn’t look away; he let Clarke draw him in.

Tucking his book under his arm, Bellamy crossed the room and sat on the floor at Clarke’s feet. Her calf pressed into his back and he closed his eyes for a minute to revel in the closeness.

Revelry was short-lived, fast replaced by a spiral of more pessimistic – and realistic – thoughts. Every time he let his fingers ghost over her arm, slept pressed too close, whispered vulnerable truths in her ears, he knew he was being selfish – attempting to lay claim to something that would never be his. Every time Clarke’s fingers curled around his, brushed the hair away from his forehead, he knew he was deceiving himself – letting his imagination go wild with the prospect that she could feel something more for him.

She had loved Finn and pursued him unabashedly. She had loved Lexa even when she was the enemy. She had slept with the trader – Niylah. If she wanted him, Bellamy chided himself, she wouldn’t hesitate.

Bellamy’s wallowing was cut short by small fingers sinking into his hair. Clarke’s fingers were gentle, carding through his hair and teasing out small knots. They became more insistent, pressing against his scalp and working at the tension in his neck. Bellamy’s head lulled back into her hands and he hated himself for how easily he fell back into this routine of self-deception.

She hummed as she worked.

Eyes resolutely closed, Bellamy reassured himself that he could pretend it was all a dream later, a satisfying dream where things were simple between them.

Her fingers slowly worked down to his shoulders, pressing and rolling the tense muscles.

It had been years since anyone had treated him with such unreserved and reverent affection. His mother had lost all softness with him when Octavia was born; he was an adult in her eyes and adults needed to worry about survival. As an adult, he had sought out this feeling, but the girls he had been with had never been particularly serious and intimacy with them certainly didn’t involve soft caresses. Something dormant and yearning awoke, stirring in Bellamy’s stomach.

Bellamy felt Clarke shift behind him, her fingers on his shoulders stilling.

He was sure she had realized the line they were crossing and would pull away as she so often did when things crossed the invisible intimacy boundary she had constructed around their relationship.

A long moment stretched out before her lips pressed against the top of his head. He sucked in a rough breath at the unexpected action.

Her fingers began working his shoulders again, dipping forward to skim his throat and press against his collarbones. Bellamy’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and her fingers ghosted over it, the lips on his scalp pulling into what he envisioned was a smile. Every nerve in Bellamy’s body was on fire and he couldn’t form complete thoughts anymore.

He had unconsciously given Clarke his heart months ago, but, now, he consciously knew that he would never be able to take it back.

Clarke’s fingers dipped lower, skimming his sternum, and a strangled sound tore through Bellamy’s throat. It was somewhere between a groan and an unrestrained moan.

Her fingers stilled. Bellamy was about to apologize when Clarke’s lips dipped from the top of his head and skimmed his ear. An earth-shattering chill slid down Bellamy’s spine, a huff of air passing his lips. Her fingers skimmed down his stomach; warm breath fanned over his ear and she absolutely wrecked him when she whispered, “You’re so beautiful, Bellamy.”

He tried to speak, but her warm, insistent fingers pressed under the hem of his shirt dangerously close to the low waistband of his pants. She dragged them up, raking his shirt up in the process, her other hand dipping to the button of his jeans, fiddling with it for a second before giving up, fingers dipping into his waistband.

Another groan passed his lips.

God, he thought, embarrassment tinging the pleasurable hum of electricity rolling through his body. He was acting like a teenage boy who had never been touched before. And the truth was, he had never been touched – not like this and not by Clarke. No one else he had ever taken to bed had left him with this kind of craving.

That thought – taking her to bed – snapped Bellamy back to reality. His eyes flew open.

It took every bit of willpower he had to place his hand over hers, to still it and shift away from her lips on his neck. Her hand, clutched in his, tensed and Bellamy knew he was right to stop her. She had gotten carried away, worked up from seeing Lexa. She would regret this in the morning if he let it play out.

She tugged and Bellamy released her hand. She retracted fast. Bellamy’s back hit the metal frame and he grunted at the impact.

When he finally worked up the courage to turn around, she had her back against the wall with her knees pulled to her chest and her face buried in them. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Bellamy shook his head in disbelief. “No.” He perched on the edge of the bed opposite of Clarke. “I shouldn’t have let that happen. You just saw Lexa and – ”

“Lexa?” Clarke asked, head jerking up to stare at Bellamy with confused eyes. “What does Lexa have to do with this?” Her hand fluttered between them vaguely.

“I mean,” Bellamy searched for the right words, “you just saw someone you used to be close to,” Bellamy chose the word Clarke had once used to describe her relationship with Lexa, “and you’re worked up.” Bellamy had never struggled so much to articulate his thoughts and he was cursing himself for how awkward it was all coming out. “You were just trying to distract yourself.”

“Distract myself?” Clarke asked, incredulity leaking into her tone. Her face was flushed as she said, “I thought I lost you the other day.”

Her words were curt and they made Bellamy hesitate. They hadn’t talked about the Commander spotting him since that day; they hadn’t talked about the sheer terror and joy, the incoherence, of their reunification after. They had both moved on, moved forward because they had to prioritize their people.

But it made sense. Her roaming hands and lips had been simple reassurance – reassurance that he was alive and well. Nothing more. They had never been anything more than that to her.

With stable footing and only a dull ache blooming in his chest, Bellamy painted a relaxed grin onto his face. “I’m alive,” he said. It came out more dismissive than he intended.

“Yeah,” Clarke breathed out. “You are.” She picked up her sketchbook and opened it to a blank page, tilting it in such a way Bellamy couldn’t see as she pulled the pencil from her hair. With her pencil hovering above the page, she asked, “Can we just forget about this?”

Bellamy took a slow, deep breath, willing his body to forget the heat of her touch. “Sure. Consider it forgotten, Princess.”

Reaching over the edge of the bed, Bellamy retrieved his book. He flipped back to the page he had been on and tried to focus – focus on anything other than the memory of fingers skimming up his stomach and down into his pants.

He failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter a lot when I originally wrote it and struggled even more with editing it. Then, I (kind of) rewrote it last night (instead of posting) while wine drunk because I found some ~problems~ - so... I hope you all enjoy this iteration!


	12. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Mortification set in shortly after leaving Bellamy’s room.

Familiar fear for Bellamy’s safety, for his life, had kicked in and practically drug her out of bed – to his room. The possibility of an upcoming conflict, an upcoming war, haunted Clarke’s waking hours. Her nights, on the other hand, were filled with a myopic focus on all the ways Bellamy might be harmed in that upcoming conflict.

Her worry had crushed the careful safes in which she relegated her feelings and thoughts about him and they had flooded her as she walked down the winding corridors – silent and dimly lit – to his room. Some of the emerging thoughts were familiar; she liked it when he touched her, when she had the opportunity to touch him. Lights caresses, falling asleep to the sound of his rhythmic breathing – his warmth – were comfortable territory now. It was good and she had accepted it. The other thoughts vying for attention, however, scared her; the truth was that she wanted to kiss him until she couldn’t remember her name, she wanted to come home to him every single night and wake up to his body pressed against hers every morning – not just when it accidentally unfolded.

What they had was good, she had chastised herself. She couldn’t jeopardize their tenuous dependency, their rapport – their people – by asking for more.

She had locked it all up so well, she had almost convinced herself that she could be happy with what they had forever.

That self-deception seemed less and less compelling, though, when her knuckles rapped against his door, sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield.

She had told herself, as she pushed the door open, that she would let things unfold naturally; she wouldn’t push – she would take what she could get. She had touched his scalp, tentatively at first, as she built up her courage. The noises he made had spurred her on and, then, just when she thought they were on the same page, he had stilled her hands and muttered something about Lexa. It had sounded like an excuse to Clarke; a simple way for Bellamy to kindly reject her.

And, so, after sketching aimlessly for a few minutes, she had hopped up from his bed and fled back to her room where this heavy mortification formed like a ball of lead in her stomach.

The truth was, she had never been rejected like that. Sure, she had unrequited crushes on the Ark, but she had never had her hands pushed away as they dipped low over a partner’s stomach, as they skimmed the soft skin under a waistband. It had been mortifying – sure. But equally infuriating.

She awoke the next morning with an emotional hangover and trudged to medical, glad that Bellamy would be scouting outside Arkadia for the day. Clarke wasn’t sure she could handle the embarrassment of seeing. Or, worse, the way he would pretend like nothing had happened. Or, still worse, she wondered if he would give one of his speeches – assuring her that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that it was just the stress and trauma she carried from everything they had gone through.

With those thoughts spiraling through her brain and a headache prickling her scalp, Clarke didn’t last long in medical before Jackson shooed her away. He claimed she looked tired and she was tired, but she knew it was the haze of distraction that made him usher her away from the chattering patient she was approaching.

She returned to her room. Anywhere else put her at risk of running into Bellamy when he returned. He wouldn’t seek her out, she hoped – wouldn’t show up and rub in the rejection. He’d give her space.

She was half-right.

Hours passed and, when she looked down, a half dozen tiny sketches of the back of his head littered the open page of her sketchbook. Every time she pressed pencil to paper intending to draw something else, it morphed into the view she had the previous night just before everything went sideways.

She was frustrated, ready to tear the sheets out violently when she heard a soft knock at her door. She recognized the pattern and considered pretending not to be home. It was surprisingly tempting – and childish, Clarke chided herself.

The knock came again. Insistent.

“Open up, Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice was demanding with an edge that pulled Clarke to her feet.

She trudged across the room reluctantly and flicked the lock, wrenching the door open. Bellamy was in full Guard gear, a large rifle strapped to his back and a pistol at his waist. There was still mud on his hands and face from his expedition. It put Clarke on high alert.

“No time to explain,” Bellamy said roughly, pulling the pistol out and thrusting it at Clarke. “Come on.”

She didn’t hesitate, tucking the gun into her waistband and following him. He walked fast and Clarke had to take two steps to each of his. Nonetheless, she kept up, winding silently through the Station.

They stopped in Prisoner Holding.

Abby and Kane were already there along with a half dozen Guards crowding around them. Indra stood next to Kane. Two grounder guards hovered near her, casting suspicious glances at their surroundings.

Bellamy pushed through the crowd of Guards who remained parted when they realized Clarke was in tow.

She stopped beside her mother and looked into the cell, finally catching a glimpse of the beaten and bloodied figure that had drawn their current audience. The man slumped against the wall was broad-shouldered with long, matted hair. Clarke sucked in a rough breath when she recognized him, a dozen questions filling her mind.

“Why is he here?” she demanded, turning to face the others, eyes drifting between her mother and Indra, searching for answers.

“The Azgeda scouts were our deaths to give,” Indra said simply. “This one is yours.”

“My death to give?” Clarke asked, incredulity marking her tone. The two grounder guards dropped hands to the weapons at their hips even as they shrunk back from her. She was the Commander of Death, after all. It made her skin prickle, but it also put steel in her spine as she stared down the Trikru Chief.

Indra nodded evenly and Abby interjected, “We can choose to give him mercy.”

“It would be an unwise choice,” Indra cautioned, sneering at the concept before grudgingly adding, “but one the Commander has offered.” A beat of silence. “To Wanheda.” The name felt like a reminder of the choice she had made between death and mercy in the past, like Indra was warning her that it wasn’t the time to chart a new course.

“Why would Lexa let him die?” Clarke asked, scrutinizing Indra’s reaction. She could tell, from the cut of Indra’s eyes, that she knew he had been working for the Commander – her guards, though, didn’t.

“Leave us,” Indra ordered. Her guards looked hesitant but nodded when she stroked the sword at her side. She tilted her head, waiting for Clarke to do the same.

“You can leave,” Clarke said, eyes traveling over the Guards vying to get a better view of the action.

Their eyes shot to Abby.

She nodded.

No one spoke again until the room was empty. Now, Clarke stood opposite Indra, her mother on one side and Bellamy on the other. Kane stood to the side as though he were a mediator.

“He didn’t deliver what he promised.” Indra broke the silence.

 _I was what the promised delivery_ , Clarke thought, glancing at the half-conscious man. His chest was bare and scored with fresh wounds, old blood and new mixing together. Kane’s eyes followed hers and she saw, in her peripherals, that he winced.

“My people sought justice for his trespass on our lands,” Indra said, motioning to the bloody wounds with an unconcerned flick of her wrist.

Clarke wondered what story their people had been told. Had Indra claimed him as one of the attackers at Potomc? Had the lie been easy to spin, soaked up by people full of rage and grief? Gifting him to Skaikru after Bellamy fought alongside them would be an easy explanation.

Clarke’s stomach lurched.

Whatever the lie was, she knew the truth. It would have looked weak for the Commander to hire an Azgeda prince to do her dirty work. And the Commander would always cover up her weaknesses – no matter who was injured, killed, along the way.

“The Commander grants you his death.” Indra’s voice was reverent as though she were bestowing a priceless gift.

But this wasn’t a gift that Clarke wanted. Her breathing sped up at the decision lying in front of her. She cursed herself for believing that Lexa would make things easy; that they would attend a summit, be inducted as the thirteenth clan, and live in peace forever. Lexa was preparing her for what accepting would mean – it would bring peace and stability. But it wouldn’t be easy. Because, as the thirteenth clan, sometimes men would be dropped at their doorstep for execution.

There were too many variables suddenly at work; the possibility that this was a test wasn’t lost on Clarke. The possibility that it wasn’t scared her even more.

“We don’t just kill people,” Kane interjected.

Clarke almost laughed because _just killing people_ was practically the defining characteristic of Ark society; they rushed through charges and barely held trials and floated anyone who stepped out of line – just like the grounders were doing now.

“The choice was granted to Wanheda,” Indra said, not bothering to look in Kane’s direction.

It was her decision, Clarke thought, brain racing through her options.

She had told Lexa they were different; the deaths on her hands were because she had no choice. This choice was Lexa’s way of showing her they were the same. Clarke resolved that she wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“I won’t kill him.” Clarke took a deep and steadying breath, sliding her shoulders back. “I offer Prince Roan of Azgeda mercy.” Her voice was firm and resolute.

Clarke thought she saw the man in her peripherals glance up, surprise on his face, but, when she turned to look at him, his head was dropping again.

A moment of silence hung over the group – the ragged sound of Roan’s breathing and the hum of the lights overhead were the only sound – before Indra shook her head and muttered, “Foolish girl.” Her movements were wooden as she turned to Kane. He extended an arm, a peace offering. She took it but didn’t allow him to speak, already jerking her head in the prisoner’s direction. “You’ve chosen to keep a traitor among your ranks.”

She swept out of the room, cloak billowing around her legs. Her guards appeared in the doorway, glancing inside for just a moment before following her with steely expressions.

“His injuries,” Kane said, words trailing off as he cast a helpless gaze at Abby.

“I’ll treat them,” Clarke offered. “Bring me supplies,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Bellamy.

He nodded, listening to her rattle off a shortlist of what she would need.

Ducking his head in affirmation, he disappeared silently down the hall.

“You shouldn’t be here alone with him, Clarke, honey,” Abby said, smoothing a hand over Clarke’s shoulder. She flinched away, not expecting the contact and her mother’s hand slowly withdrew, grief marking the corners of her mouth, dimming the light in her eyes.

“I won’t be alone,” Clarke said, quickly. “Bellamy will be here.” She paused trying to find the right words to get her mother and Kane out of the room. She needed to speak to Roan alone.

A proposition had begun to form in her mind; the Commander might have been playing a game, testing her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take back the upper hand.

A loud commotion, no doubt as Indra passed out of Arkadia, gave Clarke the right words. “You need to talk to them. Not just about this.” They hadn’t fully committed - in their meetings - to becoming the thirteenth clan. Now, Clarke knew it was the only option. If they didn’t join, they, too, would end up like Prince Roan; he couldn’t provide what the Commander demanded and now he was sitting in a prison cell, beaten and bloodied. And whoever they were _gifted_ to wouldn’t offer this kind of mercy. So, she made a choice. “Tell them Skaikru will become the thirteenth clan.”

The two older leaders looked taken aback.

Clarke didn’t back down. She stared at them with an even expression and waited for an argument. She had made a choice that would benefit her people and she refused to dwell on that – to regret it.

No argument came.

Instead, Kane nodded and said, “Don’t go inside until Bellamy returns. Nathan Miller has the keys.”

* * *

Bellamy returned with full arms and a pack slung over one shoulder. He looked a little sheepish when he said, “Jackson told me to take all of this.”

Clarke took the pile of goods in his arms and called out to Miller who ducked around the corner with a lazy grin. “More grounder torture?” he asked. His tone was teasing. The Miller who had been so insistent on Lincoln’s torture was long gone.

“Something like that,” Clarke hedged, pushing away the queasiness in her stomach. She didn’t like how close he was to what she had planned.

The man on the ground strained weakly against his chains, a dark glare filling his eyes as though he planned to use every last bit of his consciousness to fight.

“Want me to stick around?” Miller asked, looking between Clarke and Bellamy and the prisoner.

"Stay outside. Don’t let anyone in,” Bellamy ordered, shoulders shifting back, voice dropping in pitch.

This was his comfort zone; taking charge and giving orders came naturally to him. She was thankful they had slipped so easily back into this – their co-leadership. A small voice in the back of her mind, however, warned her that things weren’t really normal. Despite everything pressing in on them, her eyes slid over the strong set of his shoulders, noting the way his Guard jacket tightened around them.

Clarke bit her lip, willing whatever she had let loose the previous night to curl back up into the small compartment from which it had escaped. There were no boxes anymore, though, she realized. Bellamy’s rejection had shredded them irreparably.

Miller nodded and clapped Bellamy on the back, flashing Clarke a grin as he left. She offered a half-hearted smile in response, guilt lapping at her for being so easily distracted from the task at hand. 

Squaring her own shoulders, Clarke turned towards the now-open cell.

Bellamy stepped inside first, angling his body so Clarke had no choice but to let him. He dropped the pack on the floor while Clarke carefully laid out her handful of supplies beside it, beginning to meticulously unpack the bag. Jackson had been generous and Clarke wondered, momentarily, how much Bellamy had oversold the prisoner’s injuries. It wouldn’t be particularly surprising or uncommon for him to assume the worst.

“Sedative,” Bellamy said, holding it out to Clarke. They had worked this way before – with fewer supplies and less knowledge.

She shook her head. “I have questions for him.”

Bellamy looked warily at the prisoner, an argument forming on his tongue.

Clarke didn’t wait. She walked forward. “Roan?”

His chin tilted up in defiance; the regal pride was obvious now that she was looking for it. The movement hurt him, though. His jaw jumped and the veins in his temples bulged under the Azgeda scars. When he shifted, trying to square his shoulders in defiance, his entire body heaved with the effort and he coughed roughly.

The wounds on his back had to be worse than those littering his torso. Clarke was glad that Bellamy had brought extra supplies. It was a soft reminder that she had been trained in a strictly-controlled and rationed medical bay – he had been trained in keeping Octavia alive.

“I gave you mercy,” Clarke said, pouring water onto a rag. She leaned forward. The wounds on his chest were oozing and the smell of necrotizing flesh – sickly sweet and tinged with ammonia – assaulted her nostrils. Red flags began flying up, one after the other. “It won’t feel like mercy if you don’t let me clean your wounds.” A kind estimate might give him a week before he went septic; Clarke wasn’t willing to bet on kind estimates.

“Stay back, Wanheda,” he hissed, thrashing against the restraints again when she didn’t back away.

“Your wounds are infected,” Clarke said calmly. “Answer my questions and I’ll clean them.”

Bellamy sucked in a rough breath. Clarke ignored him.

If she thought about this too much, she would back down. Withholding medical attention to someone in such a dire state was repulsive, but this was her negotiation and she needed to say her piece.

Conflict played through Roan’s eyes for only a second before they hardened. “I’m an exile from my home. I was banished to form the Coalition your people get to walk into with no price. If I die here, I die for Azgeda.”

“What if there was another option?” Clarke asked, testing his resolve.

Roan sunk back into his restraints as though he was sitting on a throne instead of a cell floor. “I’m listening.” His tone was reluctant yet intrigued.

“Lexa betrayed you,” Clarke said matter-of-factly. He grunted in affirmation, a sour look overtaking his face. “What if there was a way for us to work together?”

“What are you _doing_ , Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice was low and controlled, anger coursing under it.

Clarke ignored him, waiting for Roan’s reply.

“What _are_ you doing, Clarke?” Roan asked with an amused half-grin tugging at his lips.

“I need to know Lexa won’t betray my people like she betrayed you,” Clarke said smoothly. “And,” she added with a fake smile, “your mother still has a bounty on my head.” Roan’s expression was wary, but he was nodding. “If you became king,” she said slowly, “Lexa would have to lift your banishment.”

Interest overtook the wariness in Roan’s eyes and she knew she had struck on some deep desire coiled within their prisoner. “Kill my own mother?” Roan asked, but his face didn’t show the incredulity of a man averse to the proposition.

“Yes,” Clarke said before she could lose the nerve. A twinge of self-loathing threatened to take her down; she had offered him mercy only to ask him to kill for her. She couldn’t dwell on that even as Bellamy made a frustrated sound in the background. If Lexa expected Wanheda to bow before her, Wanheda would be the one walking into Polis; the Commander of Death was ready for one final performance.

A brief interlude of silence passed before Roan shook his head. “I can’t do it. My people would never take me back.”

Clarke was surprised at that; she had always assumed Azgeda was a ruthless clan full of ruthless acolytes. Looking at Roan, however, she wondered if that ruthlessness was a good hoarded by the sitting Queen.

Clarke lifted the wet cloth and said, “Think about it.”

She moved closer slowly and, this time, Roan didn’t put up a fight as she gently pulled the cloth over his chest, wiping away layers of dried blood. The cloth turned red and, soon after, black with grime. The darker the cloth became, the more obvious it was to Clarke that she had the upper hand and the sicker she felt at the scheme she was putting together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited for you all to read this next arc - this really pushed me as a writer and I think really emotionally/psychologically pushes Clarke (in particular) in a cool direction. I love badass/"I have a plan" Clarke and she has quite a plan, y'all!
> 
> Big shout-out to everyone commenting and interacting with me on this fic - talking to y'all has been a big highlight of my week recently!


	13. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

For the last half hour, Bellamy had stood, arms-crossed, silently over Clarke’s shoulder.

Now, he erupted.

“What the hell was that?”

“I’m doing what I have to,” Clarke said, staring ahead, keeping a steady pace.

“You didn’t have to proposition a man to kill his own mother,” Bellamy barked.

They rounded a corner just as a woman, hand-in-hand with a young boy, did the same.

Bellamy’s breathing was coming fast and heavy; he wasn’t ready to back away from this fight.

“Quiet,” Clarke hissed.

The woman smiled at Clarke as they approached one another. She was one of the archivists on the Ark – Olivia. The boy tugged at his mom’s sleeve and pointed at Bellamy with wide eyes. Clarke recognized the boy, too, as the one Bellamy had played catch with on her first full day back at Arkadia.

“They’re busy,” Olivia said softly, but Bellamy was already slowing his pace, his breathing evening out into controlled inhales and exhales.

Clarke considered continuing on, putting some distance between herself and Bellamy, but her feet slowed of their own volition. Forcing her expression into a tight smile, she tried to hide the frustration her conversation with Bellamy had trudged up.

“How are you?” Bellamy asked the woman in a smooth tone, all semblance of his previous anger gone. This cool and collected Bellamy gave no indication that he had been privy, only minutes before, to a scheme to withhold medical care to a prisoner.

“We’re doing great,” she said, diplomatically. Her son tugged her sleeve again and she smiled down at him before shifting her gaze to Bellamy, eyes glowing. “You’re all he talks about.”

The tightness of Clarke’s smile was replaced with ease. She was pretty sure she had no right to feel proud of Bellamy, but she allowed the kernel of pride glowing in her chest to expand.

“Is that right?” Bellamy asked, dropping to one knee in front of the boy. “Been practicing?”

The kid nodded emphatically. “My throw’s almost as good as yours,” he bragged.

A blush heated Olivia’s cheeks and she looked at Clarke apologetically. Clarke shook her head; Bellamy would relish this moment.

“You’re gonna be better than me before you know it,” Bellamy said, dropping his voice lower, “Don’t go telling people that, though. I have a reputation to uphold.” He winked and Clarke thought she might melt; she really wished she could lock whatever had broken free back up in its box – this wasn’t helping her deal with Bellamy’s rejection gracefully.

“I’ll keep it a secret,” the boy promised. “I’m Donovan.” He thrust his hand out at Bellamy who took it and gave it a firm shake.

“Bellamy.”

“Everybody knows that,” Donovan piped up.

Clarke glanced at his mom. She was smiling, but there was tension in the cant of her shoulders and the corners of her eyes. This wouldn’t have happened on the Ark. Guards up there were trained to be enforcers; they weren’t around the answer mundane questions or meet children or any of the things Bellamy had so willingly added to his job description. A wrong move in front of the Guard on the Ark, Clarke knew from experience, could just as easily be spun into a crime as theft or murder. Bellamy had told her all about his vision for a reformed Guard on the ground and, at that moment, she was getting an opportunity to watch it unfold.

Bellamy was nodding when Clarke looked back to him, a solemn expression on his face. “I suppose they do.” Then, a grin broke through the serious façade and he asked, “How do you like the ground?”

“It’s so cool,” Donovan exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “We get to live in our old pod, but outside there are bugs!”

Clarke couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled past her lips. Bellamy’s head jerked up at the sound. The sparkle of life in his eyes told Clarke that while he was a natural leader, he shined just as much in this role as any of the myriad others he had taken on.

“My sister loved books about bugs as a kid,” Bellamy said, a hint of wistfulness marking his otherwise energetic and affirming tone.

“I think it’s super cool you have a sister,” Donovan said, pointing to his mom. “I told her we should get a sister, but she said no.”

“We should go,” Olivia said. Every square inch of visible skin appeared red and she didn’t meet their eyes.

Donovan’s shoulders dropped, but he thrust his hand out at Bellamy in a very official manner. “I’ll be on the Guard one day and we’ll talk more about bugs. The other kids are real scared of them, so I think they’d be a great weapon.”

Bellamy took his hand, the serious expression returning. “I expect lots of bug weapon designs next time we talk, then.”

Donovan grinned and dropped Bellamy’s hang, running ahead of his mother down the hall, yelling back at her, “I have to see Noah right now.”

Bellamy stood up. The woman finally looked back at Clarke and Bellamy. “I’m sorry he interrupted you. It means a lot that you talked to him.”

“Tell him he can talk to me anytime.” There was a beat before Bellamy added, “Please.”

The woman’s eyebrows quirked up at that and Bellamy shrugged good-naturedly. She eyed him for a moment before nodding and offering Clarke a small smile, waving at the two before continuing down the corridor in the direction Donovan had run.

Bellamy watched her walk away and Clarke watched him. “You’re good with them,” she noted when he turned back to her.

His face was a mess of emotions as he considered her. Excitement and joy lingered, but it was now marred with the frustration and anger he had quickly wiped away earlier. Something else Clarke couldn’t identify tinged the expression. Finally, he sighed, hand rubbing his face into an unreadable mask. “That kid deserves peace. If you think your plan will get him that, I’ll go along with it.” His eyes softened and he said, “I trust you, Clarke.”

The weight of those words settled like iron shackles around Clarke’s limbs. If she was wrong and this turned things upside down, Bellamy might never forgive her. That was hard to stomach, but she would bear it. “It’ll work,” she said, more to reassure herself than him.

* * *

Clarke visited Roan again the next morning.

She went alone this time with her medical pack strapped over one shoulder. A sigh of relief passed her lips when she found Miller once again on duty. He nodded at her, fishing the keys out of his pocket before she could ask.

“Wait outside?” Clarke asked once the cell door was open.

This time, Miller looked skeptical. “You’re not allowed in here alone.” Clarke balked at the word _allowed_ and Miller held his palms out, “Chancellor’s orders.”

Clarke exhaled roughly, noting the amused grin on Roan’s face. She scowled at him before turning away and dropping her voice so only Miller could hear. “Listen,” she said. “Bellamy and I are working on something. I need to talk to him alone.” She jerked her head in Roan’s direction.

Miller didn’t look particularly convinced, but she knew she had unearthed some old sense of loyalty by invoking she and Bellamy’s partnership when he tucked the keys back into his pocket and said, “You better be glad I’m a criminal.”

“Always.”

He cast another look at Roan and shook his head, muttering about history repeating itself. As he rounded the corner out of the holding area, he called back, “I’m just outside.”

Clarke stepped into the cell.

Roan’s posture remained relaxed this time even as his chin tilted up in royal defiance. “Come to torture me?” His voice held a joking nature that Clarke didn’t expect. The grin that followed told her all she needed to know. He was trying to keep her on her toes, to regain the upper hand.

It was a lost cause, she thought to herself. He didn’t know the half of her plan - no one did.

Holding up her medical bag in answer, Clarke asked, “Have you thought about my offer?”

He was silent for a long moment before he said, “I can’t do it, but I can help you.” His expression was searching.

Clarke attempted to keep her face blank, bored, as though she had a dozen other options and this was just the one she was pursuing today.

“How?” she asked, unpacking the little medical kit, not bothering to look at Roan. She had practice at this. She could still call on the hesitant Clarke who had been afraid to open the dropship doors, the one who had thought about rations before the taste of clean air. In the same way, she could call on the other Clarke – the one who was calculating and controlled, a leader who would do anything for her people.

“Take me with you to Polis and you’ll see,” Roan baited. “Place me under your protection and you’ll have a meeting with my mother. I’ll plan the rest.”

Clarke pretended to consider this affecting a look of hesitation. He had walked right into her plan; it had been easy. That made Clarke wary – had it been too easy?

No, she decided, watching the gears turn in Roan’s eyes. He thought he had outsmarted her, that he was pulling the strings from the grimy floor he was pretending was a throne. He wanted to be King and that was clouding his vision.

“I’ll take you to Polis.”

Roan’s eyes widened before his expression became stone; it was only a flicker of a second, but it cemented the decision Clarke had made.

“But,” Clarke said, cutting the bandages in her hand to fit his wounds, “you’ll swear peace with Skaikru and the Coalition when you’re King.”

Roan was slow to respond as though thinking through the request, but Clarke could see in his eyes that he had already made his decision. This was just another political game. It was transparent, easy to identify because it was the same game she was playing.

“When I sit on the throne, Azgeda will swear fealty to the Coalition and protection of Skaikru.”

Silence followed the statement.

Clarke moved closer, beginning to peel away Roan’s soiled bandages. His hands were chained, but they shifted, metal rattling. Clarke looked up, catching his gaze.

“Don’t double-cross me, Wanheda.” There was a dangerous edge in his tone that carried the rest of the threat.

A shiver passed down Clarke’s spine, but she steadied herself, continuing to peel away the bandages on his chest. “Don’t double cross me, Prince Roan.” His forearm tensed at the royal title as though it had been too long since he had been addressed by the honorific. Clarke filed that away as important information, a tense silence falling over them.

The deal had been made, but it wasn’t time to execute it yet.

Cleaning and rebandaging the seeping wounds, Clarke prayed he would survive the infection. Long enough to take the throne, Clarke amended, eyes tracing the red lines radiating out from the wound directly over his heart. Desperately clinging to the trust Bellamy placed in her, she bundled up her kit and left Roan sitting on the cell floor – he only had to survive a few more days.


	14. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

The afternoon sun was sweltering, melting away the last drops of Bellamy’s patience.

The cadets had been practicing their shooting stances clumsily for almost a half-hour, getting used to the weight of the rifles and pistols Miller had passed out that morning. A box full of magazines sat off to the side – ready to load. Pacing up and down the line, though, Bellamy had yet to spot a single trainee with a strong enough stance to warrant wasting ammunition.

Stopping at the end of the line, Bellamy watched Miller grimace as he adjusted one of the older cadet’s shoulders. Each time his hands fell away from the man’s shoulders, they shifted, back bowing. Bellamy considered, for a moment, giving the man a magazine just to prove a point; one shot and the man would be on his back from the recoil.

Shaking off the thought as wasteful, Bellamy paced the line, adjusting feet and straightening backs, encouraging them to lean into the targets. This wasn’t sharp-shooting, he needed them to understand – they were preparing to fight stealthy, fast enemies. Enemies that wouldn’t give them time to set up a clean shot or adjust before killing them. A sense of relief that his first time holding a gun hadn’t been on the ground washed over Bellamy.

“Stop,” Bellamy ordered, patience bursting as he looked back down the line he had just paced. Not a single correction he had made seemed to sink in.

The cadets’ guns lowered. Some shook out their arms. Others stretched, backs cracking.

“Watch me.”

Bellamy lifted his rifle to his shoulder, pressing it tight to absorb the recoil. He lined up the sights, keeping his cheek clear – one too many black eyes had taught him that lesson well. The elbow of his trigger hand tucked as he wrapped his fingers around the modified pistol grip. The first shot took less than a second to set up fully.

He pulled the trigger.

Moving onto the next target before checking his first shot, Bellamy pulled the trigger again. An easy flow – sight, shoot, sight, shoot – established itself.

Squeezing the trigger, sending a round through the middle of the last target, Bellamy lowered the gun.

“Show off.”

Bellamy whirled, skin prickling, ready to launch into the muttering trainee. He stopped short when he noticed Clarke standing next to the cadets, a barely-contained smile tugging at her lips.

“Back to work.”

The recruits had a new glint in their eyes as they returned to their positions. Their stances were stronger – that was immediately clear.

Slipping past Miller, Bellamy asked, “Take care of this?”

The Guard nodded, turning away from Bellamy to correct one of the cadet's postures.

Stopping in front of Clarke, Bellamy asked, “Stopping by to make fun of me?” He tried to maintain a joking undercurrent, but the sick feeling that this was about Roan soured his tone.

“We need to talk,” Clarke said, glancing at the throngs of people working in tight groups around them. “Privately,” she added as though assessing that there were too many listening ears nearby.

Bellamy jerked his head away from the group to the small shed used to store Guard gear. He had been using it as a makeshift office and knew the likelihood of intrusion was next to none. Clarke followed in silence, close at his heels.

The room was dim, illuminated by a swinging overhead light. Guard jackets lined one wall, weapons the other. The back wall was occupied by a long sheet of protruding wood secured by brackets and heavy steel bolts Bellamy had salvaged from the escape pod wreckage. It was a sturdy and functional makeshift desk. Though, now, it looked more like a general repository for the work he needed to get done; papers were piled haphazardly, mixed in with fletching for arrows, wood-shavings from various projects, and bullet casings he really should return to Raven soon.

"Roan is going to help,” Clarke said, spinning to face Bellamy as he pressed the door closed.

He knew something like this was coming, but it still surprised him. He had expected Roan to string Clarke along, to disappoint her at the last minute with a refusal.

“Why do you trust him?” He had told Clarke he would go along with her plan because he trusted her, but that didn’t help him understand why she had extended her trust to a banished Azgeda bounty hunter.

“He let them live,” Clarke said slowly. “Monty and Kane,” she clarified.

The words leapt out before Bellamy could rein them in. “Sorry if your trust in grounders isn’t reassuring.”

Incredulity and pain flitted over Clarke’s face. Bellamy squeezed his eyes shut, regret working into his bones. When he reopened them, her face was guarded, arms crossed over her chest.

“He let them live,” Clarke emphasized. “He gave his word to Lexa and he let me go knowing it could cost him his life rather than go back on that.”

Bellamy considered the explanation. It made sense and he detested that; he hadn’t been able to piece together why the bounty hunter had let them walk. He should have slit Kane and Monty’s throats. He should have taken Clarke and ran – he had hesitated for some reason. The facts were hard to deny – a gunshot to the shoulder and a knife to the leg were incapacitating, but he had barely put up a fight. The strength of his form, the training a Prince would have received – it didn’t make sense. Clarke’s explanation, however, did.

Grudgingly, Bellamy asked, “What does help mean?” Roan’s actions might make sense now, but his role was still confounding. They could offer him freedom, the throne, but he couldn’t kill his mother; he had made that clear upfront.

“He’ll set up a meeting between his mother and me.” Bellamy’s skin chilled at the prospect of Clarke once again holding court with a woman who wanted her head. This time, he knew, she wouldn’t be able to sway her hunter so easily as she had with Lexa. “And I’ll kill her.”

Bellamy’s heart stuttered at the prospect. He wanted to fiercely fight her on this but held his tongue. He had tried to stop her countless times in the past, to refuse aid, but she had always gone behind his back, always followed through with her plans no matter how dangerous he deemed them. If he wanted control of this situation, he had to play this carefully. “I want to be there.”

A flicker of surprise flew across Clarke’s face as though she had expected a fight, but she didn’t speak. There was a taste of victory that she didn’t immediately reject the proposition.

Finally, after a contemplative pause, she said, “You can’t be in the room.” Bellamy wanted to argue, but she held up a hand, silencing him. “I can’t tell you the details yet, but you’ll be close.”

“I need more than that,” Bellamy said. There was an earnestness in his tone that was unmistakable. He hoped it might blunt the undercurrent of demand.

Clarke shook her head.

She was conflicted, he realized.

He couldn’t blame her; every time he left the gates of Arkadia, he was seized by the reality that he might have to take a life. If that knowledge was accompanied by horror or fear like when he shot Jaha, it might have been more palatable. Now, however, the only emotion the truth carried was resignation. Living on the ground meant being willing to shed blood.

“You said you trusted me.” Clarke’s words were clipped and hard, but her eyes were soft, pleading him to drop it.

“That’s not fair.” The words slipped out of Bellamy’s mouth.

“I know,” Clarke said, shoulders sagging. “Give me a day.”

Bellamy considered this; it was a compromise. But was it a good one? In two days, they would be in Polis facing Queen Nia, the Commander, the other clans – their future. A single misstep could ruin everything they had worked so hard to gain. He could accept this compromise if she would answer just one question.

“If it goes wrong?” Bellamy didn’t have the heart to spell it out; he was asking what happened if Roan betrayed them, if Clarke miscalculated and the layers of this scheme didn’t fit together, if the people of Azgeda sought retribution. He needed some reassurance that Clarke had contingency plans.

She was silent.

Turning to pick through the full cup of pencils on the makeshift desk, Clarke’s shoulders curled inwards. Her fingers were tentative, hovering over the cup. He had slowly developed a collection during the three months she had been gone; every time he stopped at a trading post or happened across a bunker, he had snuck a couple into his pocket. They had served as a kernel of hope and he had clung to them when things felt hopeless – if he prepared for her return, she had to return. The logic seemed silly now that Clarke was standing across from him.

“It can’t go wrong,” Clarke finally said, glancing over her shoulder. It was one of her favorite cop-outs and it always meant the same thing – she didn’t know what to do if things didn’t go her way. Resignation curled in Bellamy’s stomach; this would keep him up, trying to identify the flaws in this plan that he knew almost nothing about and how to troubleshoot those before they exploded. But it was two days until the summit and he would be damned if they spent it fighting.

Clarke plucked a red colored pencil from the cup and held it close to her face for inspection.

“You can take them,” Bellamy offered.

Clarke turned, clutching the red pencil to her chest with wide eyes. “I can?” Reverence flowed through her voice and sparkled in her eyes. It was an unfamiliar look that coaxed a broad grin onto Bellamy’s face. He would find every colored pencil – every bit of charcoal and paint – on the ground if it meant she would look this rapt for a little longer.

“I bought them for you,” Bellamy admitted, rubbing the back of his neck at the vulnerability of the admission. It had been a minor thing to keep a pencil in his pocket in case she ever needed one. That could be passed off as mere coincidence. This, on the other hand, represented planning, foresight, attention that he was uncomfortable admitting.

Clarke looked down at the pencil and breathed, “These cost a fortune.”

Bellamy swallowed and nodded.

“I tried to buy some once,” Clarke said, then added, “before I met Niylah.” The addition did little to ease Bellamy’s discomfort. “They wanted a whole panther for them.”

He had paid for them with one of the metal cuffs from the dropship camp. It had taken haggling and pleading before the woman agreed to the price. Instead of disclosing that, Bellamy opted to point at the desk. “There’s some loose paper if you want to try them out.” He tried to affect nonchalance, but the anticipation in his tone gave away his emotions. He had been secreting away scraps of paper under his inventory and supply lists for months. Just another one of his rituals. Heat rose up his neck and burned his ears at the realization of how much he had done to convince himself Clarke would come home. 

She wasn’t put off, or particularly surprised, however. She just continued to glance between the pencil in her hand and the table. She looked up, then, straight at Bellamy. The gratitude in her eyes was overwhelming. It left Bellamy shifting nervously from foot to foot – he felt exposed.

That nervous, pulsing energy ebbed as Clarke settled into the chair in front of his desk, carefully shuffling through his papers until she produced a clean sheet. She held it up and look back at Bellamy, a clear request for permission in her eyes.

Nodding, Bellamy walked closer, looking over Clarke’s shoulder at the mass of work he should be doing. The supply and inventory lists needed to be completed and submitted before leaving for Polis – Chancellor Griffin would accept nothing less than that.

“Mind if I get some work done?”

Clarke’s head snapped up, teeth sinking into her lower lip. Disappointment filled her eyes. “I can go if you’re busy.”

Bellamy had already pulled up a stool by the time the words were out. “The truth is,” Bellamy said, sitting down in front of his stack of papers, “I don’t want to be around when one of the cadets shoots themselves in the foot.” Clarke’s shoulders loosened, the disappointment fading into a guarded relaxation. Bellamy nudged her ankle with his booted foot. “Not crowding you, right?”

“You’re not.” Clarke’s head shook rapidly.

Bellamy hummed in response, eyes dropping to his work. It was a headache waiting to happen; at least two weeks of work had piled up, unimportant compared to his other responsibilities, but slowly becoming urgent the longer he pushed it off.

A comfortable quiet punctuated by the scratching of pencil on paper and soft humming blanketed the Guard shed. Some of the tunes Clarke hummed were Ark standards learned in school. Others were unfamiliar tunes Bellamy assumed she had discovered in the archives – she had told him once that combing the archives was one of her and Wells's favorite activities.

Glancing up, Bellamy watched Clarke work – the concentrated set of her mouth, the seriousness in her eyes. Letting his eyes fall to her paper, he watched the image there unfold, layer after layer building on the previous.

Focusing on his own work, Bellamy felt himself making steady progress for the first time in weeks. One list, two, three.

Wrapping up the last of his inventory lists, he leaned back, rolling his neck, running a hand through his hair. His back was tight from hunching over the desk, unused to being still for so long. Unbidden, his eyes fell to Clarke.

He was surprised to find her watching him. Her fingers were smudged with various colors and her face held an unexpected shyness as Bellamy leaned in to get a better look at what she had drawn.

“Thank you,” she said, ducking her head as though the words were difficult to say. Bellamy’s lips drew up at the corners. “It’s the night we sent up the flares,” she said softly.

The sky was true to form; the Ark hanging overhead, the deep black of the sky illuminated by blue and red flares. The rest was less immediately recognizable; two forms were silhouetted and the crowd had been omitted. Bellamy wondered if this was her and Finn, some sort of homage to the person she had wanted to stand next to that night. The height threw him off, though, and the curl of the hair and – it was him. The realization was like a fist closing around his hear. She had asked him about shooting stars that night and he had felt so inadequate standing beside the _princess_ , unable to think of anything to wish for – he was so lost at the time, just trying to keep himself and Octavia alive, trying to navigate the dawning realization that that wasn’t enough anymore.

Looking at Clarke now, it had never been clearer what he should have wished for.

Her brows were furrowed and her lips were slightly parted like something important was sitting on her tongue. She was hesitant to show her sketches to anyone; she would label entire sketchbooks _incomplete_ when he asked to see what she was working on.

“This is – ” Bellamy’s voice broke off as he searched for the right word. Everything he could think to say felt inadequate to describe the masterpiece he was staring at, to convey how much he appreciated what she was sharing with him now. He settled for, “Perfect.”

Even when he had hated her, he had secretly admired her mapmaking skills, the little signs she hung around the dropship camp to direct workers to their stations.

Clarke’s answering laugh was humorless, something she would have rather forgotten surfacing in response to his praise. “Spend a year in solitary and you’d get good at just about anything.”

Bellamy believed that; he had never asked her about her time in the Skybox and she had supplied only the vaguest details, so he wasn’t sure why he asked, “How bad was it?”

That was the question he had wanted to ask Octavia for months, but he’d been too afraid to broach it. The shy girl who had walked into the Skybox wasn’t the same self-possessed woman who walked out. He didn’t know what changed that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The only detail she had ever offered was a flippant claim that she had more freedom after her capture than she ever had before.

For Clarke, held in isolation, that wasn’t true.

She shrugged. “I was arrested the same day my dad was floated.” Bellamy nodded, glancing at the banged-up watch secured around her wrist; he knew that. “They kept me isolated. Kane thought I would tell someone the Ark was dying.” She would have; Bellamy could see that in the gleam in her eyes. “Some of the Guards were good,” she said, voice dying off.

This was why he had never asked about her time in the Skybox. He knew that the Guards assigned to the Skybox were often not trusted to work with the general population; they tended to be aggressive, carrying power complexes and trigger-happy attitudes. The logic was simple: if they maimed or accidentally killed a kid in lock-up, the excuses were easier to spin that they would have been elsewhere.

Shame wasn’t an emotion Bellamy was good at holding, so he leaned into anger instead, letting it ripple down his spine. He had known what was going on and he had done nothing to stop it. He had been too fearful for his mother, for Octavia, to care about other’s suffering.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Bellamy said softly. He didn’t know what Clarke might reveal, but the Guards had been nonchalant, comfortable with admitting their indiscretion in front of the cadets. Nothing they had said painted the Skybox as a walk in the Ark.

“I haven’t talked about it before,” she admitted. “Finn never wanted to talk about the Ark and Lexa,” Clarke paused and a miserable laugh bubbled past her lips, “was Lexa.” Her shoulders squared as she leaned back in her chair. “My mom was on the Council, so I didn’t have it as bad.”

Bellamy exhaled; he had always hated the privileged hierarchy on the Ark, the special treatment, but, now, he was grateful that Clarke had some small bit of protection.

“There was this game they played,” she said after a long pause, curling her fingers around the edge of the wooden desk, nails seeking purchase. “They knew I was an apprentice. They’d ask me these obscure questions and if I got one wrong – ” Clarke’s voice broke. Bellamy reached out with his hand and placed it over Clarke’s. She looked up with appreciative eyes before dropping her gaze to their hands, brows pulling together. She wiggled her fingers and flipped her hands over. Bellamy watched with bated breath as she threaded their fingers together. Her gaze didn’t lift as she spoke, “If I got one wrong,” her voice wavered, “I was shock-lashed."

Rage coursed through Bellamy’s veins; he wanted to demand the names of the Guards who had done that to Clarke, to hunt them down. His eyes trailed over Clarke’s shoulder to the line of Guard jackets as though he might be able to feel which Guards were responsible.

Clarke’s fingers tightened around his and he exhaled sharply, looking back at her.

All vulnerability, all emotion, was gone. Her voice was strong and matter-of-fact when she said, “They’re dead.” She might as well have been telling him how many rolls of bandages were in medical or what time the sun would set that night. It was the first time she had spoken of the dead with a haunted shadow passing through her eyes.

Something small and triumphant took refuge there instead. Bellamy understood; he understood because it was what he experienced every time a Guard had bruised and scarred his mother. It was the same feeling of winning that he had felt when he realized none of the Guards who had taken advantage of her precarious situation had made their final trip to the ground.

“Good,” Bellamy said without hesitation. “I’m trying to make this Guard better.” He needed to make sure she knew that; he wasn’t in charge, not by title, but he had been offered incredible leeway and power. He would train the new Guards to be better; he wouldn’t accept the corruption that had eaten away at the old Ark Guard.

“I know.” Clarke released his hand and pointed at his papers. “Get some work done.” Her voice was full of a heavy-handed attempt at humor that didn’t quite land, but Bellamy forced his own answering smile anyways, returning to his work as Clarke shuffled the papers on his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter played with some ideas I had about the Ark/Skybox/Guard. It was really interesting to explore what we know about those things and some of Clarke's actions and see how they might converge (theoretically)!
> 
> NOTE: you might see the total chapter count tick up over the next couple of days. I'm splitting up the upcoming chapters because they are pretty ~long~ and I'd prefer them to stay closer to the length of previous chapters.


	15. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Polis was unlike anything Clarke could have imagined. She had looked at sketches of the tower in different trading posts and Niylah had spoken of the markets with awe, but the sheer scale was awe-inspiring.

Booths lined either side of the main roads, draped in furs and brightly colored hides. Hundreds of grounders dressed in vastly different clothes than the leather Trikru garb Clarke was used to clogged the street, darting from one booth to the next. The meaty, aromatic scent of game and cooked vegetables, stews in large metal cauldrons, suffused the air. The level of sound reminded Clarke of the Ark; the clamor of children squealing and the chattering of adults was so like the Unity Day celebration and the small market on the main deck of Alpha Station. Loud voices rang out, attempting to draw customers in.

Clarke wanted to be drawn in, to give in to this display of excess. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

Indra, at the front of their assemblage, tugged Roan along on a chain, his hands fixed to a thick metal bar running behind his neck. He jerked every so often, cursing in Trigedasleng.

Clarke sighed when he launched into another short tirade about all the ways he would kill her; she and Bellamy had decided it was for the best if no one else knew about the unfolding plan. As far as her mother and Kane were concerned, they were petitioning that the mercy Clarke had offered extend to Roan’s freedom from confinement, not just the protection of his life.

Hanging back from the group, Bellamy next to her, they scanned the crowd for familiar faces and Azgeda scars.

Bellamy had been silent since they left that morning. He had slipped a small knife into her hand while the others disarmed. She had tucked it carefully into the inner breast of her jacket. Now, she idly brushed her hand over it for reassurance.

The crowd, thick and pulsing, gave way as they passed. A clear walkway leading right to the entrance of the tower opened. Whether it was for the Trikru Chief, the Azgeda prince, or Wanheda was unclear.

A tall, cement tower – flat gray – rose high into the sky. Standing at the entrance, it was impossible to count how many stories the building rose above the city. Clarke had heard several numbers tossed around, but none captured this imposing height.

The guard at the entrance bowed his head to Indra; a small Trikru gear was braided into his hair. Indra clasped his forearm in greeting and he pushed open the heavy door, ushering them inside, sneering at Roan stumbling behind Indra – another planned tactic to ensure the others believed him still gravely injured.

Another set of giant doors, rusted metal with exposed wires, opened with a groan.

“This goes to the throne room,” Indra explained when Kane asked.

The inside was covered in a thick layer of red rust and black grease; it smelled metallic and heavy, somewhere between natural rot and abiological wreckage. The room was small and left Clarke pressed too close to Bellamy. The heat of his chest radiated against her back, seeping through her jacket. She could feel his breath ruffling the hair at the crown of her head and she, not for the first time, wished she could lock this obsession with him up forever.

The elevator lurched.

Roan twisted at the same time, another planned fit, but, this time, in the small enclosure, it sent Clarke stumbling back. Her back knocked into Bellamy’s chest hard and his hands dropped to her waist, steadying her, holding her up until she could regain her balance.

“Careful,” Bellamy whispered, lips ghosting the shell of her ear, voice too quiet for their companions to hear over the loud, reluctant groaning of the elevator shaft and Roan’s current diatribe.

Heat crawled up Clarke’s neck, but she forced herself to glance at him over her shoulder. He was smirking – not what she expected. Her expression quickly became withering – familiar banter ready to replace the unfamiliar intimacy Clarke thought they were bordering on. Quickly reaching back, she pinched his arm in retaliation, her own grin incapable of being repressed. A soft chuckle rumbled in Bellamy’s chest and he shrugged innocently.

Some of the anxiety that had woven itself into Clarke’s chest finally loosened its hold. This plan was insane; she knew that the margin of error was large and it could endanger more than just herself, but something about this playful moment with Bellamy, inconspicuous to the rest of the group, was reassuring.

It only lasted a moment. Both of their smiles dropped when the elevator shook, stopping with a jolt. Bellamy’s fingers dropped and he leaned back as the doors opened.

The throne room was expansive. Candles sat on low tables lining the room. More hung overhead on suspended platforms, bathing the room in a glow completely at odds with the bright splash of light filtering in from the equally large balcony. Clarke’s blood chilled, remembering what Octavia had told her on their ride back from meeting Lexa – the Commander had supposedly kicked an Azgeda ambassador over that very railing.

The obvious centerpiece was the throne where Lexa was currently lounging. Curling wood and daggers composed the back of the elevated dais, the steps draped in a thin red carpet that disappeared under the rugs cushioning her throne.

Just behind the dais, the throne – behind Lexa – was a bald man in a long, flowing cloak, and on either side of him, standing a foot back, were guards with long spears.

The reality that there was only one exit hit Clarke at the same time as the resounding thud of the doors closing.

Indra, at the front of their party, stepped closer to Lexa and pulled Roan forward, shoving him to his knees at the foot of the dais. His head dropped forward as Lexa’s eyes roved over the man; all straining and vocalizing ceased – his regality replaced with a calm subservience Clarke had never seen him wear.

“Clarke,” Lexa said after a long moment of utter silence, lifting her hand to beckon her forward.

Clarke stepped forward, skirting around her mother and Kane. She heard Bellamy trailing behind, but put up her hand. She needed him at the back where he would have the best vantage point, the best chance of seeing surprises before they came to fruition.

Stopping in front of Lexa, next to Roan, Clarke held her gaze. Roan might need to look deferential and weak, but she was ready to play Wanheda; a small voice whispered to her that it wasn’t really playing a role if it came so naturally, felt so comfortable, but she silenced it as Lexa said, “You have chosen mercy.”

“I’ve come to request his freedom,” Clarke said, tilting her chin up in defiance.

A beat of silence.

“I cannot do that.”

“You gave me a choice.” Clarke watched Lexa catch on the word _choice_ ; it was what she had hurled at her in the tent the previous week. It had been said in unmistakable anger then. Now, it was laced with a reminder.

“I did,” Lexa conceded.

“If my people are to join your Coalition,” Clarke pressed, “we need to know you’ll keep your word.”

The guards inched forward and the bald man scowled, leaning closer to Lexa as though he was ready to take the brunt of whatever Clarke might dish out. It was suddenly so obvious; this was her weakness. It wasn’t that the small Skaikru force trampled Mount Weather while she made deals with them; it was all the deals like this one with Roan she had gone back on. That was why her power had weakened, why the threat of Azgeda was so much more pressing than it had been in the past. They didn’t trust her; Skaikru placing trust in her was her last hope.

Lexa rose from her throne. The bald man stepped to her side.

She glanced at him and shook her head before descending the stairs alone.

She stopped in front of Roan, but her eyes never left Clarke. “Why would you wish this man to be free after what he’s done?”

“He had honor,” Clarke said, slowly, “and no choice.”

She didn’t know if she believed that, but she needed to keep Lexa on her toes. The tension rolling off Kane and her mother was palpable; they were unhappy she had taken on the role of their leader once again, but she couldn’t deal with that now.

“Should we free every traitor who makes a deal to save himself?” Lexa asked, boot pressing into Roan’s stomach. He hissed, back arching. This wasn’t an act; the wound on his stomach was still raw and inflamed, healing slower than the rest. Regal defiance peeked out and his shoulders jumped with the effort of holding in a further display of pain. Lexa withdrew her foot, satisfied, and look back at Clarke, tilting her head in anticipation.

“He’s already been punished,” Clarke said, firmly. “You made sure of that.”

Kane shifted behind her, footsteps following the rustling. Indra hissed something unintelligible, but the steps and rustling stopped. Clarke was relieved when she heard no further sounds.

“I did,” Lexa agreed. “And you think this punishment is enough?” Gone was the challenge in Lexa’s tone. It had been replaced by a genuine curiosity as though she was surprised by the path Clarke was choosing.

“Yes.” Steeling her nerves, Clarke added, “My people demand he be freed as a goodwill gesture, proof that you know mercy before we join the Coalition.”

Lexa’s eyes narrowed as though trying to assess the veiled threat, but Clarke’s face remained dutifully blank. Sighing, she said, “I will consider your request. He remains locked and guarded until I make my decision.”

“You should make the decision soon,” Clarke cautioned, readying her final card, “or Skaikru will publicly reject the Coalition.”

Lexa’s head tilted first to the right, then to the left, eyes raking over Roan before settling on Clarke again. “You’ll have an answer by midnight, Clarke kom Skaikru.” Lexa’s gaze was firm, a clear indication that negotiations were over.

That was fine with Clarke; she could work with midnight – it would give her almost twelve hours to enact the rest of her plan. She had done more in less time, she reassured herself as anxiety threatened to claw its way back into her core.

“This meeting is dismissed.” Lexa’s voice was loud and the doors at the back of the room opened in response. “Markus Kane,” she said in a quieter tone, “I hope you enjoy Polis now that you are a free man.” The undercurrent of those words didn’t escape Clarke; she had shown mercy once – she had allowed both Kane and Jaha to live. “I’ll call on you at midnight, Clarke, with an answer.”


	16. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Time passed in a syrupy haze that evening – seconds dripping into minutes into hours.

Midnight was drawing nearer now and Bellamy was standing at the window on the far side of the room, staring out over the market – still as alive as it had been at noon. Clarke – tired – had finally stopped pacing.

Heavy, brooding silence had blanketed the room since Clarke sat down, legs curled under her body, in the giant fur-lined chair at the center of the room.

If Lexa didn’t act accordingly, if she hadn’t been convinced – if Clarke had miscalculated – the entire plan would fall through. They would still be obligated to join the Coalition, but could expect little protection against a rabid Azgeda advancement.

It had been made increasingly clear that as long as Queen Nia sat on the throne, the war was swiftly approaching. Three more Trikru villages had been attacked on the border; more warriors, Bellamy had said grimly, than at Potomc. His body language had told the rest of the story – there had been more Trikru casualties than Potomc as well.

A knock echoed, heavy and resounding – confident.

Bellamy spun to face the door and Clarke jumped from her chair, crossing the room quickly.

It wasn’t yet midnight and, when Clarke glanced back at Bellamy, she saw him shove one hand into his pocket. She wasn’t surprised when he flashed the small knife – a reassurance – before tucking it safely back into his pocket, fingers still wrapped around the hilt.

Turning back to the elaborately carved door, Clarke took a deep breath and wrenched it open. It gave with a groaning noise of disuse.

A sigh of relief involuntarily stumbled out of Clarke’s mouth when she came face to face with Lexa. She wasn’t wearing full regalia anymore. Clad only in simple black pants and a long-sleeved black top, her hair was loose and her face paint had been scrubbed away, and she looked younger this way, Clarke noted. She looked like a fresh leader who just might be willing to offer mercy – a woman inclined to offer mercy, perhaps.

No guards accompanied her and none seemed to lurk in the hall. Clarke checked.

When she spoke, her voice was as soft as her face. “May I come in?”

Clarke nodded, moving to the side.

Lexa stepped inside, body loose and relaxed for only a moment before she tensed. She had spotted Bellamy lounging – half-seated, half-standing – on the window seal. Her steps faltered, as though she might turn around and leave.

Clarke shut the door firmly behind her, arms crossing involuntarily over her chest as though it might protect her from the waves of emotion threatening to outweigh her analytical brain at the sight of Bellamy and Lexa standing in this room together.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lexa asked, glancing over her shoulder at Clarke before looking pointedly back at Bellamy.

“No,” Clarke said quickly, heat flaring in her cheeks at the insinuation in Lexa’s tone. Speaking slower, she asked, “Have you made your decision?”

Lexa moved deeper into the room, her steps controlled, face harder now. “I’ll offer Roan mercy,” she said, looking at Clarke with unwavering eyes. Relief flooded Clarke’s body, an antidote to the raw emotion she had fought to keep at bay. “I released him before coming here.”

“My people will be grateful,” Clarke said, trying on the diplomatic affect Kane had adopted. It was awkward and rang less true in her voice than his.

“I did this for you, Clarke.” Longing filled her eyes and it reminded Clarke of the soft goodbye in her tent the previous week. It made the still-healing fissure in her chest ache.

“Stop doing things for me.” The words were tumbling out before she could grab them; it wasn’t part of the plan and Bellamy’s tense posture shifted into something more defensive – more ready for battle. He leaned forward, feet planting more firmly in search of good leverage. His eyes, however, weren’t on Lexa; Clarke could feel them drilling a hole into the side of her face. “I mean,” Clarke said, trying to grasp at that diplomatic affect she had practiced, but Lexa was already holding up a hand.

“I understand,” she said, glancing from Clarke to Bellamy with an unreadable expression. Clarke remembered what Lexa had said about envying her; she hadn’t understood it then, but she did now and it made her stomach roll. Lexa turned towards Bellamy, finally looking at him with a steady, unwavering gaze. Clarke watched as he dragged his eyes off of her and onto the Commander. “You are her weakness,” Lexa said.

Nothing was confusing about those words to Clarke – she knew Lexa’s mantra. But, to Bellamy, that was an unfamiliar phrase – confusion flitted across his face. He opened his mouth as though ready to ask a question, but Lexa was already turning away from him, closing the small gap between herself and Clarke.

“I live only for me people,” Lexa said, fingers lifting as though she might ghost them over Clarke’s cheek. Instead, the hovered – dead in the air – snipping another thread. “I envy your ability to live for more.”

“Our time has passed,” Clarke said, voice bolstered by the certainty of that in her gut.

The last shreds of hope in Lexa’s expression crumbled. Snipping that final thread felt like having her heart broke all over again.

“You deserve to do more than survive,” Clarke continued. “You can live for more.” Clarke hesitated before her next words. Trusting her gut, she said, “Costia would want you to live for more.” Beautiful Costia, Clarke thought, remembering the way Lexa had talked about her – such vivid detail. As though she might walk into the war tent at any moment.

There was a beat of silence – one world hanging in the balance – before Lexa spoke, sending them fully into a new one.

“Goodnight.” A soft impression of a smile was on her lips as she turned away. Just before she slipped out the door, though, she glanced back at Bellamy and considered him. A short pause. “Protect her.” There was a fierceness in Lexa’s command that appeared to hit him like an arrow. He nodded sharply and without hesitation as though protecting her was somehow already his job.

* * *

The door closed with a click.

Bellamy relaxed back on the small bench seat under the window. Clarke, mind racing with everything Lexa had just said, was frozen in place under the weight of his gaze.

“We have to wait for Roan.”

It was the first thing that came to mind and something he already knew, but it broke some of the tension, allowing Clarke to perch on the edge of the bed facing Bellamy. Less than two feet of distance separated them.

“What did she mean?” Bellamy asked slowly, eyes uncharacteristically guarded.

“Which part?” Clarke asked, buying herself time.

“ _You are her weakness_ ,” Bellamy quoted, brows pulling together as though parsing a particularly difficult puzzle.

Clarke swallowed; she considered lying. But, in only a few hours, she would be using death as political leverage; she would hold her own life in the balance and take Queen Nia’s into her hands. If love had ever been a weakness, had ever been dangerous, it was now. If she had ever been able to fully eschew caring, it was now.

Nonetheless, her response was vague – self-protective. “She knows you’re my closest – ” Clarke searched for the right word – _friend_ was a laughable understatement for everything they shared. She shook her head to clear it, clumsy words tumbling out. “The person I’m closest to. That I’d do anything for you.”

Bellamy’s nod was slow and contemplative. “It is over between you two?”

Clarke didn’t expect the question, but it was easy to answer. “Yes.” She thought about it for another second and admitted, “I think she’ll always be special to me. Like Finn. But we aren’t good for each other.” They were like acid fog, coalescing, and feeding the worst, most twisted parts of one another. Lexa hadn’t made her Wanheda, but she had made it easy for Clarke to slip into the role, her leadership advice fueling something desperate.

A beat of silence. Then another. Bellamy didn’t respond, eyes fixed just over Clarke’s shoulder.

Uncertain if he ever planned to speak again, Clarke let curiosity spill unrestrained from her lips. “Have you ever been in love?”

His breathing hitched and that familiar heat rose up his neck, only barely visible under tan skin. His eyes roamed the wall behind Clarke and she knew the answer. His voice was a little broken when he said, “Yeah. I’ve been in love.” He exhaled and a kind of half-laugh, half-snort bubble up from his chest before he added, “She doesn’t feel the same way.”

Present tense.

He was in love with someone still around; someone they knew, someone currently in Arkadia filling his thoughts – his heart. If she had any doubt that she was irrevocably in love with Bellamy Blake, they would have shattered right along with her heart.

Anger was an easier emotion – closer to the surface. So, Clarke gave into that; angry that anybody could know Bellamy Blake was in love with them and not return those feelings. He was kind and strong and intelligent beyond measure; he took time for children and elders, was unafraid to get his hands dirty doing the most menial tasks, and he worked himself to the bone every single day to make a better world. Not to mention his beauty – the soft dusting of freckles and curls that hung just above his eyes, the stubble on his jawline, and the dimple in the center of his chin.

“She’s an idiot,” Clarke murmured, lost in her own introspection. Her eyes widened when she realized what had spilled past her lips. Her eyes snapped to Bellamy’s, hoping he hadn’t heard.

His eyes were equally wide.

Unfamiliar territory stretched out wide and far, engulfing them with tentative silence.

Finally, ever so slowly, Bellamy stood up.

Clarke bit her lip as he closed the distance between them, towering over her seated form. She dropped her chin, unable to handle the intensity of his gaze.

“Why would she be an idiot?” he breathed, fingers ducking below Clarke’s chin and tilting it up. Nothing about his expression was what she expected. His pupils were blown and his breathing was coming fast and she could all but taste desire rolling off his body. It clouded her judgment and loosened her tongue.

“Because you’re beautiful,” Clarke said, remembering how easily the words had slipped out the night he rejected her. More words slipped out now, their truth making them slippery and uncontainable. “And you’re the kindest man I’ve ever met, but you’re strong. You know how to balance who you are and who you have to be to survive. Anybody would be lucky to have your heart.”

Bellamy’s fingers on her chin tightened for just a second before slipping down, trailing over the column of her neck. She shivered under his touch but didn’t look away this time. If she was jumping headfirst into this, she wanted to memorize what it was to be the target of Bellamy’s affections – no matter how misplaced. It was absolutely masochistic, she knew, to keep putting herself in situations to face his rejection, but she couldn’t stop herself from reveling in his touch.

“Anybody?” he asked, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a crooked grin. His hand cupped Clarke’s jaw now; it was impossibly large, Clarke thought, fingertips resting at her ear, the heal of his palm cupping her chin. She swallowed thickly and nodded. “Even you?” His words were a dare.

“Even me,” Clarke said, voice breathy. She reached out with her right hand and hooked two fingers through his belt loop – her own dare.

Bellamy’s face moved closer, fingers firm on her jaw. Her entire body buzzed, eyes darting to his lips, berry red and slightly parted. He paused, his lips just inches from her, letting her make the next move. It was an intoxicating dance that left Clarke’s head fuzzy like she had been sipping moonshine, heat pooling in her belly as his pinky brushed her earlobe.

Shifting forward, she brushed her lips over Bellamy’s.

And a loud, insistent knock echoed.

Clarke froze, fingers tightening in Bellamy’s belt loops. His eyes snapped to the door.

They separated in record time; a new urgency replaced the lazy give and take intimacy that had filled the space between them just seconds before. Clarke’s fingers curled around the knife in her pocket as Bellamy positioned himself out of sight behind the door in case things went wrong – in case Roan had betrayed them – and they needed to regain the element of surprise.

Clarke approached the door slowly, listening, but she didn’t hear the shuffling of feet or the heavy breathing of attacking warriors. Reaching forward, she slowly pulled the door open, preparing for the worst.

Roan stood on the other side clad in a lined leather jacket, a large ruff of black fur circling his neck. He was alone.

“She’ll see you,” he said gruffly, brushing Clarke aside and striding into the room. She turned to watch as he paced across the room and picked up the bottle of wine they had left untouched since their arrival. He sniffed it, poured a little on his sleeve, sniffed his sleeve, then lifted the bottle to his mouth, and took a swig.

Dropping into the large chair Clarke had previously lounged in, he brought the bottle back to his lips.

“The guards will escort you,” Roan said, lifting his ankle to cross his knee. He looked the picture of ease, as though he wasn’t orchestrating an assassination attempt on his own mother – he wasn’t, Clarke reminded herself; that wasn’t what this was.

Setting the bottle on the small end table next to the chair, he reached into his boot. Bellamy stepped forward; Clarke tracked him in her peripherals. Roan withdrew his hand. He was clutching a small vial.

“She’ll have you taste the wine first.” He held out the vial. Clarke stepped closer, but Bellamy skirted around her, plucking the vial from Roan’s hand. He uncapped it and sniffed, nose wrinkling. Roan nodded. “If the wine smells like that, don’t drink it.”

Clarke took the vial from Bellamy, carefully avoiding touching his fingers, and wafted the scent towards her nose like her mother had taught her in medical. The odor was simultaneously bitter and sickeningly sweet with a pungent note at the end she could only identify as the odor of a decaying corpse.

Roan casually skimmed his eyes over Clarke, then Bellamy before shaking his head. “If this works, you’ll have earned Azgeda’s loyalty.”

His lack of faith was obvious. They were from the sky; weak by the standards of the ground. They knew little of the politics and poisons involved in this plan. The odds were stacked against them. And, yet, his skepticism steeled Clarke’s resolve.

She might know little about the planned route he assumed they were taking.

But he knew even less about the plan that was actually unfolding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just scream for a minute because I'm so excited to share this one with you! We are ramping up for a big finale, y'all!


	17. Bellamy and Clarke

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

The corridor outside Clarke’s quarters was long and dim. At first glance, it appeared empty. Closer inspection, however, revealed two guards at the far end, little more than outlines against the grey brick walls.

Only a thick wooden door separated them from Roan still lounging in Clarke’s room. Bellamy would inform him of the real plan once Clarke was gone – and he would _just have to deal with it_. That was what Clarke had settled on when Bellamy questioned her anyways.

“This is naïve,” Bellamy whispered, reaching out to grasp Clarke’s forearm. She turned to face him, eyes trailing to the guards – out of earshot, he knew, but waited for her to assess the situation. He felt crunched for time with only a few minutes to say his piece before the plan would be officially on the clock.

“It has to work,” Clarke said. Her tone was resolute. Any hint of apprehension had fled, replaced by obstinate assuredness. Another infuriating part of that self-sacrificing tendency so intrinsic to her personality.

“And you’re prepared for what happens if Lexa doesn’t cooperate?”

Clarke’s chin tilted up defiantly. She wouldn’t tell him that because she couldn’t entertain it. When he had given her the ultimatum, told her what he would do if the Commander didn’t act as expected, she had only grudgingly accepted it.

“Tell me,” Bellamy repeated. This time, it felt like he was asking for something else – for her to tell him something he hadn’t yet found the right words to ask.

Her hand lifted, fingers ghosting over his cheek. Something in that touch was different now – warmer and less intimidating. A deep need knitted into Bellamy’s core. They had been so abruptly interrupted by Roan; reminded of their duties and pulled out of the cocoon they had spun. And dammit if Bellamy didn’t feel desperate for some reassurance from Clarke that it had meant something – that it wasn’t just the intensity of what they were about to do.

Guilt tagged each of these thoughts, souring them.

This was dangerous and every attempt to close the gaps in Clarke’s plan had made the precarity more obvious. Worrying about something so juvenile suddenly felt incompatible.

“I can’t think about that,” Clarke said with a heavy sigh, vulnerability sneaking into her tone. “Or I won’t go through with this.”

The fingers ghosting over his cheek became more insistent, looping around the back of his neck, carding through his hair like she could hold him in this place and they could avoid what was coming. Bellamy let himself be guided, let her pull him closer, his own hands falling to her hips, clinging to Clarke like a lifeline. He could feel the knife she had smuggled in just brushing his thumb – it was grounding in a familiar way, a reminder of where they were, who they were, what was always at risk if they let their guard fall too far.

She stopped tugging just before their lips met. Waiting.

It was painfully obvious what he had missed before in her obstinacy. She had left after Mount Weather because she thought she had to bear everything for their people. Now, she was offering him some of that burden, letting him shoulder what she was incapable of carrying.

“I understand,” Bellamy breathed.

They were so close he could feel the warmth of Clarke’s relieved sigh brush his lips. Her fingers tightened in his hair; his fingers tightened on her hips, pulling her closer. The length of her body pressed flush against him and he was reminded of how small she really was – a full head shorter than him.

He could remember – now with humor – that he had tried to use his height to intimidate her when they first met. And she had shrugged him off with a tilt of her chin and a curt comment about finding food. That was when he had started to fall; the privileged princess – who had spent a year in solitary confinement – had shrugged him off so easily because she knew what their people needed in a way he never would have been able to conceptualize back then.

If someone had asked Bellamy who closed that final gap, which one of them stepped fully off the cliff and into freefall, he wouldn’t have had an answer. But their lips met, nonetheless.

This kiss wasn’t soft or hesitant as it had been before – there was an edge, a demanding nature in the way Clarke’s teeth caught his lip, the pressure of noses against cheeks as though with enough willpower they might be able to slip into each other’s skin.

Insistent fingers at the nape of his neck tugged on his hair, catching a knot – almost painful. The scent of soap and charcoal became Bellamy’s world.

Clarke was his world and, yet, she was also infinitely more.

But they were on borrowed time.

That was the knowledge that allowed Bellamy to pull away.

Clarke followed, trying to catch his lips again. It was a stroke to his ego – that part of him that desired being desired – that almost broke his resolve, but he kept her at a few inches away, the fingers on her hips holding her in place.

A hum rolled off Clarke’s lips – resignation quickly turned to reverence. It was such a foreign feeling to identify that in Clarke’s eyes, but also wholly familiar – how many times had he seen that look on her face and just assumed he was misinterpreting it? Her fingers slipped from his hair to cradle his cheek, cutting off any further analytical thought. “Beautiful.”

Heat rose in Bellamy’s face and his ears grew hot, but the words didn’t totally destabilize him this time. “You are,” he murmured, memorizing the reverence on her face – the satisfaction in her expression, the redness that filled her cheeks at his quick response. “I – ”

Panic tinged the edge of Clarke’s expression and she surged forward, catching Bellamy off-guard as she pressed her lips firmly against his, silencing his words. Their noses bumped, teeth colliding – it wasn’t elegant. She pulled back first this time and words spilled out of her. “Don’t say anything.” Her tone was pitched higher than usual. “Please,” she whispered. “This isn’t goodbye, so we have time.”

The words were like a knife. But she was right.

He had been so preoccupied with how the Commander might derail their plans that he had neglected the danger Clarke was facing. It had been an intentional neglect – he couldn’t change her mind, couldn’t devise a safer sequence of actions, so he had directed all his mental energy into focusing on what he could control. A familiar sense of failure crept in – it wasn’t enough. He should have done more.

Tilting his head forward, he dropped a kiss to Clarke’s forehead. He took that second out of her sight to compose himself, painting a forced grin onto his lips. “Come on, Princess,” Bellamy murmured. “Just another day on the ground, right?”

Clarke’s expression melted into something like relief. She didn’t look particularly relaxed, but the panic had dissipated. She nodded.

“How many drops?” Bellamy asked, coaxing her back into the right headspace. He knew that was as important as the timing itself, as the words and actions she had planned.

“One and a half.” Her shoulders squared and her eyes hardened. “Two is too fast. One is too slow.” She paused. “How long?”

“Ten minutes,” Bellamy answered, glancing down at the unfamiliar watch he had affixed to his wrist that morning.

A dry back and forth follow. Rote memorization and repetition helped each ease into the role they were about to play. It wasn’t the relaxed, playful interlude they typically used to decompress – it was an attentive and myopic focus on the minutia of the plan. Bellamy had leaned into it intending to help Clarke but found that it calmed his nerves as well.

Footsteps at the end of the hall were their final signal to part ways. The guards were approaching. Clarke’s head whipped in their direction, watching them for just a second before she turned back to Bellamy, thrusting her forearm out. “May we meet again,” she said, voice monotone.

Bellamy hesitated before wrapping his fingers around her forearm. He wondered if this counted as a _goodbye_.

“May we meet again.”

* * *

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Queen Nia sat at the head of a long table picking at a roasted bird carcass, her long fingers shredding the meat with practiced ease. They didn’t slow even as she looked up.

Clarke’s mouth went dry.

The woman had broad shoulders completely swathed in thick, heavy furs and her blonde hair was carefully set atop her head. The deep Azgeda scars at her temples reflected in the warm glow of the lantern at the center of the table.

There were no guards, but a girl stood in the corner – Ontari. Roan had warned Clarke not to underestimate her; she was young, closer to Clarke’s age than Lexa’s, and dressed plainly – she looked more like a servant than a warrior. The intricate scarring spanning her cheeks, forehead, and nose were the only indication of her true status as Nia’s second.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Clarke had practiced this part. She was prepared for this initial dance; Roan had coached her through the appropriate twisting of words – the expected and unexpected questions. It was everything that would come after that left her stomach uneasy, her heart pounding a bruising tempo against the walls of her chest.

“What would happen if Skaikru rejected the mark of the Coalition?”

There was a beat during which Nia seemed to consider the question, methodically picking apart flesh from bone. Twisting a bone out of the bird without looking down, she made a show of tossing it blindly into the small bowl already containing half the bird’s inedible parts.

“Now,” she said, a wicked grin forming on her lips, “you’re thinking like a leader.”

Clarke stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the Queen. Ontari shifted forward, mirroring her movements.

“I need some assurances first.” Clarke’s voice was slow, forming the words precisely. She was buying time, wishing there was a clock – that her father’s banged-up watched still worked. _Ten minutes,_ Bellamy had said. A minute too long, Lincoln had warned them solemnly, and everything would be over.

“Skaikru would be safe.” Nia’s voice was rough with disuse. Reaching forward, she picked up the wine decanter and thrust it in Clarke’s direction.

“And me?” Clarke asked, fingers looping around the bottle, cradling it close to her chest, not yet bringing it to her lips.

“My quarrel is with Lexa,” she said, disgust dripping from the name. “Not you.” She paused, eyeing the bottle, but Clarke made no move to take the sip. “When Lexa is gone, I won’t need the power of Wanheda.”

“When Lexa is gone,’ Clarke repeated, voice carefully neutral.

Nia hummed in response, popping a scrap of meat into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. She savored it, eyes closing, head tilting back. Ontari inched forward. They were teetering on the edges now – Clarke could feel it.

“Yes,” Nia finally said, eyes opening, roving over Clarke as though assessing her weaknesses. “We will march on Polis by month’s end. Raze every Trikru village along the way.” The words were horrific even in their sparsity, but she delivered them as though describing a routine scouting mission – not a war. A thin veneer of thoughtfulness veiled her features; the faux concern was out of place on her severe features. “Your camp is along that route.”

The threat was outright, barely veiled. Join me or perish.

Clarke took a deep, measured breath and nodded. “My people will be safe if we march with you?”

Nia nodded, her expression turning ravenous; her pupils dilated turning her eyes coal black and her lips, stained with a light sheen of grease, pulled back to reveal a row of perfect teeth.

Lifting the bottle to her nose, Clarke sniffed – deep, full-bodied wine was the only scent that greeted her. Wiping the mouth with her sleeve, Clarke drank deeply, ignoring the foul taste that coated her tongue when she pressed it against the rim of the bottle. Sweet liquid filled her mouth and slid down her throat. It drank easier than the moonshine they brewed at Arkadia – even now, tinged with poison as it was.

“Okay,” Clarke said, tongue darting out to collect the drop of wine about to dribble down the edge of the bottle. _One and a half drops._ She hoped it was enough and fought the temptation to suck her sleeve into her mouth, to milk just a little more poison into her body – to make it look real, she would tell Bellamy if he questioned the train of thought.

Nia’s hand raised, signaling Ontari to approach.

Clarke took a lurching step forward, letting the bottle slip from her fingers; it was an intentional move, part of a carefully planned dance. The bottle shattered in slow motion before Clarke’s eyes, glass shards spreading out across the concrete floors, lodging into the fur rug under Nia’s feet like tiny daggers.

She couldn’t let them drink it; couldn’t risk any remnants of poison passing their lips. They would smell it, taste it, and they would know. Then, it wouldn’t matter how fast Bellamy was.

When Clarke looked up, Ontari was glaring at her with a deep scowl. The glint in her eyes sent a clear message – one word from the Queen and she would end Clarke’s life. There would be no hesitation, nothing she could do to defend herself. She would have only a single blade and a rudimentary command of combat skills. Poison would slow her movements and make her sloppy. She would die here in front of the Queen of Azgeda. Her people’s dreams would die with her.

An apology tumbled off Clarke’s lips – the words were practiced, the slur unintentional. Queen Nia’s eyes narrowed at Clarke who pressed her lips together, willing her voice not to give her away just yet.

“Leave the glass,” Queen Nia said, waving a dismissive hand at Ontari. “More important concerns are at hand.”

A beat of hesitation from Ontari before she stepped back, settling behind the Queen’s left shoulder.

Clarke focused on taking even, measured breaths. Her voice had already started to fade; the speed with which the poison was acting left fear coursing icy through her veins – had she taken too much of the poison? She could still feel her limbs, could think, could hear and see clearly.

She would be fine. She had to be fine.

“Do we have a deal, Wanheda?” Queen Nia’s tone twisted on the moniker. It wasn’t reverent of fearful in the way others said it, but it also wasn’t full of the disgust she had placed on Lexa’s name either. It was almost mocking, but not quite. Mostly, it was a transparent ploy to lure Clarke in.

She had to respond. She had to smooth out her speech, enunciate as she had when she first walked into the room. She had to stall the inevitable sealing of this deal, the undeniable sign that she had approached too close to the edge of treason to be forgiven.

“I want territory,” Clarke said. It was a vague demand, not exactly part of the planned negotiations she had told Roan she would fake her way through. This fit the bill, however. It was a big demand – greedy. It would appeal to Nia, but she would never give in to it.

As predicted, Nia tilted her head as though considering. Removing Lexa from power was worth considering this offer. It was increasingly clear to Clarke that there was little this woman wouldn’t risk to eke out just a little more power for herself.

“And what’s in that deal for me?” Her words were precise and sharp as she pushed her plate away and reclined – it was the same indulgent posture Roan naturally fell into. The similarities, however, stopped there. Where Roan showed genuine interest, Nia was calculating – constantly pivoting. Where Roan showed relaxation, she showed only a greedy need for more. Where Roan showed thoughtfulness, she showed only cruelty.

“Technology,” Clarke said. The syllables of the word were a marred mess coming out of her mouth and she silently cursed herself for not attending to them more. Her head was beginning to pound like an icepick was being lodged into the nape of her neck. Even as fear coursed through her body, she could sense her heart slowing, struggling to pump her thickening blood. She had never been so aware of her body as in that moment; she had never been so sure of what it felt like to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I know you are frustrated at these two for being a total mess in terms of communication and the constant interruptions I'm pulling right now, but I hope this tides you over! Real Bellarke kiss with *some* plans to talk later? Check! Finally!
> 
> Also - this chapter is coming on a random Sunday night because I realized that I had a weird plotting inconsistency in these last few chapters that involved some deep rewriting the last couple days. I'll probably post these last few as I get them back to solid ground instead of following the Monday/Friday post schedule I've been using.
> 
> Big thanks to y'all for being patient with me and always providing such great feedback!


	18. Bellamy and Clarke

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

The hallway outside the Commander’s quarters was guarded on either end. In front of the door, stood two more – the same men who had guarded her tent in the clearing.

_Ten minutes._

Bellamy had ten minutes to get inside, convince the Commander she had to help him, and get back to Clarke. It had sounded impossible when Clarke proposed it. It felt even more hopeless now. Even if he got into the hallway, past the first guards, he would have to contend with those two. Every second wasted put Clarke at risk.

He had promised himself that he wouldn’t dwell on the flaws of the plan; they were too deeply entrenched. The look on Roan’s face, however – when Bellamy had ducked back into the room and told him the true nature of their plan – had shaken his confidence. He had rationalized it, had pretended it wasn’t so dangerous; he couldn’t do that now, and regret crept in. Guilt threatened to swallow him whole – he had let Clarke not only walk into a den of wolves but effectively agreed that she should sacrifice herself to them.

 _Ten minutes,_ Bellamy reminded himself.

The dim light felt like a blessing as he inched down the hall.

It was early morning and he could only hope that the shifts Roan had reported were accurate – if they were, the guards would switch out any second now. It was a similar rotation to that which the Guard followed back at Arkadia and he knew the weaknesses in it like the back of his hand.

Bellamy counted down the seconds – each one mattered.

After five long seconds, the guards farthest from the door began to peel away.

Bellamy glanced down at the watch on his wrist. _Nine minutes._ He was wasting too much time.

Slipping out of the shadows, Bellamy rushed forward, ducking into a small alcove just as another guard peeled away. The small rock-faced divet was dark and dank. Bellamy itched for a gun, an easy guarantee of safe passage.

Stepping out of the alcove, he continued down the corridor at a fast clip. The guards at either end had finished their shift change and were now positioned to look out – to stop entry, not to monitor those already in the hallway. The guards at the door were the ones tasked with that chore.

Relief flooded Bellamy’s veins when he realized they were far more concerned with whatever whispered conversation was passing between them – inaudible Trigedasleng too fast for Bellamy to parse volleying back and forth between them.

He could try to catch them off guard, but something told him that fighting the Commander’s guard wasn’t the best way to appeal to her.

Ducking into another alcove down the wall, Bellamy knew he had to make a break for it.

It was time to get caught.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged out of the darkness and into the bright circle of light illuminating a good ten-foot radius around the Commander’s door. He didn’t monitor his footfalls, didn’t try to keep his jacket from swishing.

The guards detected him immediately, dropping into defensive stances.

“I need to talk to the Commander,” Bellamy demanded, holding his hands up in a gesture of goodwill – of surrender, he amended. All he had to do now was avoid being impaled by the six-foot-long spears the guards were now brandishing in his direction or Clarke –

He cut off the thought. There wasn’t time to think about what would happen if he couldn’t get back to her. If he dwelled on that now, approaching this systemically would prove impossible.

“It’s Wanheda,” Bellamy said, raising his voice, hoping beyond hope that the Commander could hear him through the thick wooden door.

A long moment drew out, the guards sizing him up.

Resisting the urge to reach for his knife, Bellamy pitched his voice louder. “Wanheda is in danger.” His voice was strong and authoritative, but he knew he couldn’t maintain the veneer for long. He had only another minute before the panic set in. Before the undeniable truth screamed itself so loudly into existence that he wouldn’t be capable of ignoring it.

“Sky People are your problem,” the left guard spat out.

“I’ll decide that.” The voice was disembodied for a long second before the door opened to reveal Lexa in a black robe, hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look like a woman awoke by conflict outside her door. She hadn’t been asleep at all; Bellamy could tell from her alert gaze. “What’s happening? Is Clarke alright?” Concern marked her tone, sending another dose of relief flooding Bellamy’s veins.

“She’s with Nia,” Bellamy said, watching as Lexa’s concern shifted to fear before settling on an emotion Bellamy could only describe as murderous intent.

“Let’s go,” Lexa said, reaching for the large blade hanging from the left guard’s belt. She wrenched it free, allowed it to dangle from her fingers, then turned to the smaller guard on the right. He was over a foot taller than her and twice as wide, but she pointed to his bandolier nonetheless and he readily handed it over. Tossing it over her shoulder, she slipped the blade into one of its leather rings, tightening it as she walked.

Bellamy fell into step beside her.

“Why?” Lexa asked.

“She was invited,” Bellamy said, words short and clipped. The more dots Lexa connected for herself, the better. The less the guards now standing at attention on either side of the hall heard was also better.

“Is she in danger?”

“Poisoned,” Bellamy said.

“How do you know?” Lexa’s tone was cutting as though her words could tear through whatever Bellamy was hiding, rip it open and spill his guts onto the concrete floors.

“Roan,” Bellamy said, simply. Roan had, truthfully, give them the idea to use poison; it was a favorite of his people, he had explained back at Arkadia. He, of course, had thought it was to be used against his mother – not Clarke.

“He owes Clarke a debt,” Lexa observed. “This is how he is choosing to repay it.”

Something like that, Bellamy thought bitterly.

Panic had begun to seep in. They were on the far side of the tower, floors above the room Clarke was currently trapped inside.

_Five minutes._

They had five minutes.

* * *

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

“It’s a trap,” Ontari hissed.

Say something.

Clarke knew she should say something; she should reassure them that she just wasn’t feeling well. Or begin to play the part of an accusatory victim, perhaps? The options were there, but they weren’t clear. Instead, her thoughts were veiled behind a thin grey fog. A cavernous expanse of darkness occupied the space between her brain and mouth. Her tongue was little more than a piece of numb tissue threatening to sink back and choke off her airway.

The pain in her spinal column, at least, had been dulled by the fog. It was there – more an itch now. Not worth attending to.

“Yes,” Nia purred. “But we could use it.”

 _One minute,_ Clarke chanted to herself. She wasn’t sure how long it had been or how long she still needed to wait, but the arbitrary number was something to cling to. She only needed to maintain control for a few more seconds before Bellamy would arrive with the antidote – hopefully with Lexa in tow.

The thought of Bellamy sent a warm shudder down Clarke’s spine.

Vaguely, she knew this wasn’t what she should be thinking about, but she couldn’t seem to rein in her focus. Her vision was blurring at the edges and the only thing holding her to consciousness was the thought of Bellamy’s fingers on her hips, his lips pressed against hers, the way he had looked at her with such transparent affixation.

She wanted to live for her people; she wanted them safe and content. But she clung to an even more base desire – she wanted Bellamy to hold her again, wanted to feel his lips on hers, to explore every inch of his body with her hands, memorize his every scar.

“How?” Ontari asked, the words falling from her lips viciously. She twirled a piece of the broken wine bottle between her fingers menacingly.

_Space. Give her space._

Clarke’s survival instinct told her what to do, but when she tried to step back, she stumbled. Her feet had been planted in a sturdy shoulder-width stance, but now – moving them – she realized they were numb.

Taking another step backward, searing pain shot through her ankle. Blinking away tears, she flailed in an attempt to right herself, but, despite her efforts, her knees hit the concrete floor with a loud crack. The pain dulled quickly; encroaching foggy numbness spread quickly through her body.

Ontari was approaching when Clarke finally forced her head up to look at the woman. It lolled back too far, straining her shoulders. Gritting her teeth, Clarke forced her head back up, forced herself to meet the woman’s sadistic smile.

“Show them your blood,” Nia said with a wave of her hands. The words were far away, muffled and distorted almost beyond comprehension.

The grin painting Ontari’s face dissolved. Seriousness took over her expression as she raised the shard of glass.

Clarke tried to flinch away, to crawl backward, but her muscles wouldn’t respond – each attempt only forced blackness to infringe more wholly across her visual field.

* * *

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

Each step down the corridor took a veritable lifetime. The antidote – secured from Titus just moments before – was burning a hole in Bellamy’s pocket.

Rounding the last corner, they came face to face with two Azgeda guards blocking the doorway – they were Roan’s guards; the ones that had escorted Clarke here. They didn’t know of the plan; they assumed what was happening behind their closed doors was, in fact, a move against the Commander.

“Move aside,” Lexa ordered, brandishing her borrowed blade.

A sneer painted the closest guard’s face. He bit something out in Trigedalseng, glaring at Bellamy.

“You are in my tower.” A threatening current coursed under the words.

A slow smile spread over the man’s face as he spoke his next words. “This tower will be ours by morning.”

Lexa tensed, the fingers around her blade tightening – she was going to kill him, Bellamy realized only a second before the blade sliced into the man’s throat. Blood bubbled from the wound then streamed as she wrenched her blade free, settling her gaze on the other guard, daring him to deny her entry. He was now backing away, hands dutifully tucked behind his back.

Bellamy was familiar enough with the copper smell of blood, the gurgling sounds of dying, to step around the man without wincing. His worry for Clarke blunted the horror he knew he should feel. Lexa’s booted foot met the man’s chest, kicking him aside as she wrenched the door open. The heavy _thud_ of the man’s body against the floor made Bellamy’s steps falter, but only for a second.

In the next, he was striding into the room, head swiveling, eyes tracing every corner.

Clarke wasn’t immediately visible. She wasn’t standing before the Queen or seated at the long table as he had naively hoped to find her. Bellamy’s heart pounded, eyes scanning the room until they landed on the ground covered in broken glass. There she was, sprawled with thick black liquid smeared across her face. Her eyes were glassy as though she was hovering somewhere far away.

Every muscle in Bellamy’s body locked up, his limbs refusing to follow his commands.

“What a surprise.” The drawling voice belonged to the woman at the end of the table – the Queen. She was picking at her nails absently. “You’re met my second: Ontari.”

The woman waved her hand vaguely towards the corner of the room where a young woman stood wrapping a bandage around her palm – black blood seeped through the wrapping and, unbidden, Bellamy remembered the storyteller at Potomc. She had told him about Nightbloods; there was a competition. The children – they were never much more than children – fought to the death right here in Polis. Trained warriors battling to become the next Commander. Ontari was close in age to Lexa and Bellamy wondered, momentarily, how she had slipped under the radar, how she had managed to live.

It didn’t matter now. None of those fleeting observations mattered. Not with Clarke splayed as she was on the ground.

“This is treason,” Lexa said coolly, floating forward, planting herself between Nia and Clarke.

She had created a physical buffer.

Something shook loose in Bellamy and he surged forward, kneeling beside Clarke, fingers plunging into his pocket to withdraw the small vial of antidote. The liquid was a bright, viscous blue.

Bellamy fumbled with the cork; memories of dosing Octavia when she had the flu swam back to the surface. He had been clumsy and she had tried to spit the medicine out – disgusted by the bitter taste.

The cork popped out and he tossed it aside.

Clarke’s eyes were darting back and forth as though she was trying to find something.

Finally, they landed on his face and a delirious out-of-place smile spread over her face. “Bellamy,” she murmured, lips barely moving, the words more breath than vocalization.

“I’m here,” he reassured her, fingers uselessly trying to grasp at her limp body. Cupping and lifting her head with one hand, Bellamy said, “You’re going to be okay.” And he meant it. She had to be okay.

“Bellamy,” she murmured again.

“You need to drink this.” His voice walked a thin tightrope between comforting and commanding as he pressed the vial to her lips.

The muscles in her jaw twitched with an effort that did little to affect the rest of her face. Tilting the vial further, Bellamy attempted to ease the liquid into her mouth. It sat pooled on her tongue, her stare turning glassy-eyed. Panic rose like bile in Bellamy’s throat.

“Clarke,” Bellamy whispered, fingers brushing over her forehead, pushing back the baby hairs soaked in cold sweat gently. “You need to drink this,” he repeated, trying to pull her back to this side of consciousness. Her eyes cleared a little, settling on his face again – they were unreadable. Her mouth remained slack.

He had watched her in medical often enough that he should have known what to do, but the worry was clouding his thoughts, making it more difficult to determine the appropriate course of action.

Tilting the vial forward again, he watched as some of the antidote sloshed into her mouth; she would choke if he wasn’t careful. If she spat this out, it was over.

Ignoring reality wouldn’t work; he had agreed to bear this burden and ignoring the dire straits they were currently in would only make things worse.

Bellamy forced himself to breathe slower, to think.

And the answer slipped slowly into his mind. Jasper had been like this when they brought him home from the grounder trap; he had been poisoned just like this.

Shifting Clarke so that her head rested on his leg – elevated – he positioned one hand at her throat. The other remained gripping the vial.

Slowly, he began to massage Clarke’s throat, simulating a swallowing motion. He watched with bated breath as the liquid disappeared drop by drop.

Seconds dragged out for eternity, taunting him.

He was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him, his focus solely on Clarke. Involuntarily, words spilled past his lips – begging words in a pleading tone to just _be okay._

* * *

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

The fog was still thick, but Bellamy’s words rang clear.

“You can’t leave me, Clarke,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

Clarke tried to focus her vision, but it swam, her head spinning with the effort; she tried to swallow the last drop of sweet liquid on her tongue – the antidote – but her mouth wasn’t hers to control; she tried to lift her hand to touch Bellamy’s face and tell him she was here, that she wasn’t leaving, but her limbs were numb.

“Dammit.” The curse was wretched, frustrated, and angry.

His fingers brushed over her forehead, around her temple, across her cheek. She could feel his touch, she realized. She could feel the gentleness and the frustration – so totally Bellamy. She wanted to lean into it, to lose herself in it, but, she knew, if she let herself fall too deeply that she might never swim for the surface – she might give herself over to this moment completely.

Letting his touch guide her out the dark instead of lure her in, she expanded her senses, attempting to see past him, to feel the concrete below her, to hear what was happening around them. She could vaguely hear other voices; rising and falling in volume, pitching into lower and higher registers. The voices were female, she decided – still unable to make out their words.

“Hey,” Bellamy’s voice had dropped even lower now and it felt like a caress as sharp pain bit into Clarke’s spine. The numbness was fast receding now and the fiery sensation licked at her in waves, crawling up her spine and over her scalp. She was burning from the inside out. “Princess.” The nickname – he had never used it in such a gentle tone – brought Clarke’s vision into focus.

His face was the first thing she saw. All tanned skin and freckles, hard lines and soft eyes, and that dimple – she wanted to kiss that dimple in the center of his chin.

Whispered coaxing pulled her farther out of that dark, foggy nothing.

Her mouth was dry, that last sweet drop of antidote long gone. She could feel her arms, though, and her legs even if she still lacked complete control of them.

The other voices were more pronounced as well now.

“She’s awake,” Nia purred.

Clarke tried to whip her head in the woman’s direction, but it remained limp, lolling against the concrete floor.

“Just in time,” Ontari interjected. Her voice was hard to locate, but Clarke thought she might be near the door, boxing them into the room.

“Can you move?” Bellamy’s voice was fast and urgent now. He had two knives in his hand – his and hers, she realized. Clarke tried to move but only her fingers twitched. A wretched groan fell past Bellamy’s lips and he grabbed Clarke’s hand, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of the knife. She wasn’t sure she could wield the knife if asked, but she could hold it, she could grasp it as though her life depended on it because she was pretty sure that it did. “When you can move, get out of here,” Bellamy ordered, eyes no longer trained on her, but somewhere behind her. “Tell me you understand.”

“Not the plan,” Clarke croaked out.

“I don’t care about the plan,” Bellamy bit back, frustration spilling into his tone.

Clarke didn’t respond. She would have control of her limbs momentarily and she would get things back on track. She had to.

“Wanheda’s death is ours,” Nia said, voice cool and collected. “And your death,” her voice became animalistic, “is mine.”

“This is the last time Azgeda betrays the Coalition.” Lexa’s voice was strained – rage overflowing into it. Physical exertion played just under the surface.

Bellamy was searching Clarke’s face when she glanced back at him; his eyes darted between her and the direction she assumed Ontari was standing. He looked torn, confused 0 like there was no solution to the dilemma he was currently in.

“Go.” Clarke managed to force the word out, curling her fingers tighter around the knife. She could twist her wrist now, lift the knife a few inches off the floor, and it seemed to satisfy Bellamy because he was on his feet in the next second, stepping around her, disappearing somewhere outside her peripherals.

Focusing on her breathing, Clarke checked in with her body. She could flex her toes, roll her ankles, bend her knees, but her hips were stubbornly attached to the floor.

Attempting to lift her shoulders, a bolt of searing pain rocketed down her spine.

Gritting her teeth, Clarke tried to force herself up. Her shoulders lifted a few inches off the ground and victory was tangible. Then, with a spasm, her core gave out and she was freefalling. Her back hit the ground hard, spinal pain blotting out the dull ache in her shoulders.

Heaving a sigh, Clarke tilted her head to the side. Her cheek pressed against cool concrete.

Bellamy and Ontari were circling one another.

More precisely, Ontari was attempting to circle and Bellamy was cutting her off, positioning himself between her and Clarke – a physical shield.

Everything had gone to the stars.

The plan had been simple enough: meet with Nia, imbibe a bit of poison; Bellamy would fetch Lexa and the pieces would fall into place – the Queen would appear guilt of an attempt to sabotage the Coalition, she would be exiled along with her second, and Roan could ascend to the throne without bloodshed.

The whirling bodies dancing around her – Nia and Lexa facing off in one corner, Bellamy and Ontari in the other – made it painfully clear to Clarke that her plan had been wishful thinking. Bellamy had told her there were too many holes – he was right, but she had shot him down, worn away at his resolve until he had no choice but to go along. He would never let her face this alone and he had no power to stop her; guilt tugged at Clarke that she had once again pulled him into a sloppy scheme that could end in either, or both, of them dead.

She could salvage it, though.

Pushing up onto her elbows, Clarke buried her teeth in her lip, biting back the curses threatening to spill out. Wheezing with the effort, she tightened her core and strained into a sitting position.

Her hips were tight, but she could lift them now. Rolling onto her right hip, Clarke tested her arms; they were wobbly but seemed to be capable of bearing her weight. She planted her palms and carefully lifted herself to her knees.

Each movement had to be precisely planned. Her body screamed in protest and copper filled her mouth, teeth piercing the thin skin of her lips.

Grasping for the edge of the table, attempting to keep a grip on the knife in the process, was near impossible; it consumed all of her mental faculties, blotting out her peripheral vision and dulling her hearing. Clarke trembled from the effort. But she was on her feet.

And the wreckage was devastating.

The table had been gouged and scarred; black and red blood pooled in the newest valleys, marring the previously brown wood. The chair Nia had been seated in was a splintered heap on the ground and the tapestries on the walls hung in shreds.

Lexa and Nia were sparring; each held a simple blade. They fought with reserve; spinning and lunging and retreating in equal measure. The energy flowing between them, however, conveyed an intensity their movements lacked.

Gripping the table more firmly, Clarke turned slowly towards Bellamy and Ontari.

Their movements were in stark contrast to what Clarke had just witnessed on the opposite side of the room – there was more ferocity here, quicker movements. Exertion was clearly bearing down on them; sweat and blood mixed, covering their bodies in a thick sheen.

“Stop.” Clarke’s voice came out raspy and quiet. There was no hesitation, no pause in the conflict around her. She had been drowned out by the scrape of metal on metal, by their heavy breathing, and the stamp of their feet.

Heart racing, Clarke tried to step towards them, to intervene, but her body screamed and she grabbed the edge of the table, catching herself before her knees could give out.

Ontari was besting Bellamy; his reflexes weren’t quite as sharp and each step away from Ontari’s slashing blades brought him dangerously close to the wall. He was favoring his right leg. Clarke could see the next seconds unfold before they occurred; he would be boxed in, weakened, balance unstable thanks to whatever unseen injury had befallen him.

In real-time, sucked back to the present, Clarke watched as Bellamy’s back hit the wall. He jolted at the contact and his eyes widened, blade lifting in a defensive gesture. Ontari closed in, lifting her blade.

Clarke sucked in a deep breath, pulling air into her lungs, down into her diaphragm, and she screamed, “Stop.” Her hearing was blotted out by the sound of her heart hammering and, without stopping to think, the knife in her hand was hurtling towards Ontari.

It struck just left of her spine and she howled, pushing Bellamy roughly into the wall and spinning to face Clarke with a murderous glare. The attack hadn’t slowed her, but she was distracted – she was no longer bearing down on Bellamy and that felt like a small success.

Nonetheless, the reality of the situation left Clarke attempting to scramble backward, unable to walk without keeping a hand on the wrecked tabletop for support. Sliding back, a long, sharp wedge of wood pierced her palm, tearing through the newly-healed scarring from her oath with Lexa. She took another unsteady step backward, the wood wedging deeper into her palm.

Ontari was approaching fast, blade raised.

Gritting her teeth, Clarke lifted her hand, hoping her legs would support her for just a moment. The wedge of wood stayed firmly lodged into her palm. Wrapping her fingers around it, Clarke’s vision began to grey at the edges. It was her only weapon, though, and she wrenched it free. Blood dripped from the end of the wooden spear in her right hand and her ripped palm smacked back onto the table, knees quivering. The pain was momentarily blinding.

Ontari closed in and Clarke readied herself to fight with every last bit of her consciousness.

Then, without warning, Ontari’s body jerked and Bellamy appeared over her shoulder. He knocked the blade from her hand and it skittered across the floor. He twisted her – now weaponless – into a vice grip. His blade bit into her neck and the one Clarke had thrown appeared in his other hand at her ribs, prepared to slide between them and up into her lungs.

“I have her,” Bellamy said, nodding at Clarke to turn her attention to the other two fighters. It was difficult to drag her eyes away from him, hard to look away for fear the tables might turn. If Bellamy was injured – worse than he already was – in this hair-brained plan, she would never forgive herself.

He would be fine, Clarke thought, forcing herself to turn away.

On the other side of the room, the devastation was less obvious. Lexa’s hair was a rough mess and a black bruise was expanding across her cheek, but there was little blood compared to the other conflict. She had Nia – only semi-conscious – on the ground and was raising her blade, preparing the killing blow.

The sight made Clarke’s body seize; this would all be for nothing – this whole ordeal had been intended to minimize bloodshed.

“Stop,” Clarke ordered, voice cutting through the room with an air of undeniable command. Lexa didn’t look at her, but her shoulders did tense. “Don’t kill her.”

“They tried to kill you, Clarke,” Lexa spat back. Her voice was heavy with fatigue.

“Banish them, then.” The words spilled past Clarke’s lips fast and practiced. This was what she was supposed to have said minutes ago; she was supposed to be prepared to deliver these words when Lexa barged in – albeit in a less polished tone – before blood was shed. If she had only dosed the poison more carefully, they wouldn’t be here now.

"They will pay with their lives for their attempt on yours.” Lexa’s words had a ringing finality that Clarke was unwilling to concede to.

“Show them mercy.” Her voice tipped into pleading without her permission. Lexa spun her sword. “Please.”

The hilt of Lexa’s sword came down hard against Nia’s nose; it broke with a sickening crunch and her eyes rolled back into her skull. Clarke sucked in a rough breath and waited until the Queen’s breathing evened out into a steady rise and fall. She was unconscious, but not dead.

A rush of relief flooded Clarke’s veins and her knees gave out.

Strong hands caught her and confusion edged in – he had been restraining Ontari. Where was she? Had he been the one to shed blood when Lexa offered respite? Had she escaped?

“Unconscious,” Bellamy whispered in her ear. His voice was smooth and his warm breath tickled the side of her face. “Sit,” Bellamy ordered, pulling out a chair with his free hand and sliding it behind Clarke.

She would have, typically, protested. She needed to maintain control of this tenuous situation, needed to physically take charge of the situation, but the fatigue encroaching carried a clear message. If she didn’t rest soon, she might slip back into unconsciousness. And she didn’t know what Lexa would do to the Queen and Ontari without her there to stop it.

“Explain,” Lexa demanded, approaching the table with a scowl.

“Offer them mercy.”

“She has made it her mission to take everything from me.” Pain coursed under the gruff tone Lexa had put on and Clarke couldn’t deny the truth; Nia had taken Costia, had taken a seat on the Coalition only to betray them with encroachment into Trikru territory, and, now, she was plotting to overthrow her right under her nose.

"Don’t give her a warrior’s death,” Bellamy said. His hand fell to Clarke’s shoulder; it felt natural, a united front.

Lexa raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t speak for a long moment. “My people would see that as a weakness.”

“No one has to know what happened here,” Clarke offered, playing off Bellamy’s lead. “Send them away tonight; spin whatever story fits your narrative.” Bitterness leaked into Clarke’s tone; to Lexa, everything was about spinning a narrative – finding the right pieces and fitting them together in a way that would elevate the legitimacy of the Coalition.

Right now, however, Clarke couldn’t begrudge her that. Wasn’t that the same game she and Bellamy were playing? Spinning a narrative to get the outcome that they desired; cutting down and risking others to protect the things that mattered most to them?

“She’s a Nightblood,” Lexa said, voice strained, pointing to Ontari.

Bellamy had described what little he knew of Nightbloods to her, but the details were still fuzzy.

“She has a claim to the Flame,” Lexa explained then sighed at the blank expression on Clarke’s face. “She is eligible to fight in the conclave; to become the next Commander. I cannot allow that.” Lexa’s face hardened. “This isn’t a negotiation, Clarke.”

“It is,” Clarke batted back, hands curling around the edge of the table. She was too weak to push herself into a standing position. She wanted to scream until she felt Bellamy’s hand curl under her arm, helping her to her feet. His supportive hand didn’t drop even as she settled into a steadier stance. “If you banish her, she can’t claim the Flame.”

“The conclave,” Bellamy said when Lexa didn’t reply, “won’t happen until your death, right?”

Lexa’s eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded for him to continue. Clarke was eternally grateful for the sponge-like quality of Bellamy’s mind, the unquenchable thirst for knowledge, his keen ears.

“Banish them,” Bellamy said. “Place a kill order on her head. If she enters the surrounding clan’s territories, let them do your dirty work. She won’t make it back to challenge your Nightbloods.”

Lexa tilted her head from side to side in consideration. She opened her mouth as though ready to push back but words didn’t spill out. Her jaw worked for a long while before she nodded. “Why is this so important to you?” Now, she was clearly speaking to Clarke.

“We can’t keep making the same mistakes.” Clarke recalled Bellamy’s goal for the Guard; he knew he couldn’t fix what they had done, the pain they had caused, but he held onto hope that he could craft a better way forward. She had to convey that hope to Lexa. “Our people deserve safety; peace.”

“Your people will achieve peace by joining the Coalition whether the traitors live or die.”

Clarke shook her head. “You can’t kill everyone who steps out of line.”

The fierce look in Lexa’s eyes told Clarke that it was, in fact, an option, but she didn’t voice that. Instead, she gritted her teeth and said, “I will banish them. And you will join the Coalition. And this will be over, Clarke.” She paused. “I don’t want any more surprises. No more demands.”

The concession hit Clarke like a fist to the gut.

She nodded, voice fleeing as another wave of fatigue washed over her. Leaning back into Bellamy, her vision swam. His hand on her shoulder tightened and the other dropped to her waist.

He was warm, Clarke thought. So warm.

The last thing she heard was Lexa telling Bellamy, “Take her to Titus. I’ll clean this up,” before a depthless blanket of nothing consumed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty thorough rewrite (because when I went to post it, I realized it was a mess) - the bones of the chapter are the same and that is about it! I really like this plan and the tension of this (and the previous chapter) - what do y'all think?
> 
> Also: we are close to the end, y'all! I'm so thankful for everyone for sticking around since I began posting and all the new folks I've noticed commenting recently!


	19. Clarke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; non-explicit sexual content ahead! It fades to black before anything really happens - pretty canon-typical, in my opinion, but wanted to pop a warning here because "better safe than sorry."

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

Consciousness floated back to Clarke slowly – little by little.

The room was warm, but not unwelcomingly so, and the furs on which she was reclined were soft against her skin. Ruffling pages punctuated the otherwise smooth rise and fall of Bellamy’s voice; the story he was reading was unfamiliar to Clarke – interesting enough – but it was his voice that took root and blossomed in Clarke’s chest until she was so full of affection that it ached.

As though the universe sensed she couldn’t handle it anymore, Bellamy’s voice faltered. The pages ruffled for a moment before the book closed – the sound a soft _thump_. Clarke’s ears strained to tune into the thud of the book against the bedside table as he cast it aside.

She remained still – eyes closed – as he inched closer. Warmth radiated off of his body and Clarke thought of how nice it would be to curl into him as she had done on so many sleepless nights, to feel his hands trace her body, his lips on the crown of her head.

She had been so dense. That realization rattled around her brain, obliterating any other train of thought vying for attention. Their relationship had grown so intimate and, yet, she had been so reluctant to acknowledge what that intimacy could mean. The idea of this man – her best friend – ever wanting her as she wanted him had seemed so absurd only hours ago.

Lips dropped to Clarke’s forehead. She breathed him in unabashedly. He smelled like soap, but underneath was the familiar gunpowder scent she had always associated with Bellamy Blake. It was heady and intoxicating.

Bellamy leaned back after a long moment; Clarke could hear him settling into the chair and she knew that she couldn’t avoid the pull of consciousness any longer. Too many thoughts were racing in to fill the void his presence left.

The lighting was dim and her eyes adjusted quickly.

Relief played across Bellamy’s face. “You’re awake.”

Clarke hummed in response, attempting to cover the groan that threatened to spill from her lips as she tried to sit up. It was awkward with her heavily bandaged hand and protesting back. Bellamy’s hands hung in mid-air as though looking for a way to help.

She would typically have brushed them away, insisted she could do the bare minimum task of sitting up on her own, but something in his eyes – a genuine need to help – forced Clarke to give him instructions. “Upper back.”

His hand dropped instantly to her upper back and Clarke used the leverage to push herself into a seated position against the small mound of pillows.

“How long have I been out?” she asked, testing the waters, suddenly fearful of the answer.

“A couple of hours,” Bellamy said, a frown settling deep into the lines of his face.

“The summit?” Clarke asked, unable to put off responsibility for any longer. She wanted nothing more than to pretend it was just the two of them, that they held only their own lives in their hands. But that wasn’t true – and pretending things were that simple was impossible.

The frown on Bellamy’s lips vanished, replaced by an unreadable, serious countenance. “Will be tonight.”

Clarke opened her mouth to protest; delaying the summit could be politically destabilizing. It would give too much time for the other clans to back out. Numerous protests prepared to fly off her tongue.

"Roan is being coronated as we speak,” Bellamy said by way of explanation, lips ticking down into a frown.

There was a truthfulness in his tone and transparency in his expression, but Clarke knew there was more. She knew that the delay wasn’t only about the need for Roan to take command of the Azgeda throne, but also to give her time to return to consciousness. Because she had been reckless. Because she had dived headfirst into a plan with too many avenues for error and then overdosed after promising Bellamy she would take care not to do so.

The need to act was a pulsing and living motivator.

Body screaming, Clarke attempted to toss her legs over the edge of the bed, blanket sliding back.

Bellamy’s hands came down firmly on each of her calves and Clarke froze.

“Stop.” There was a river of commanding authority flowing through the words. It reflected in Bellamy’s eyes and the tightening of his fingers as he held her in place.

Involuntarily, a spark of heat ignited in Clarke’s lower belly.

“There’s nothing for you to do, Clarke.”

Studying his face, dwelling on what stretched ahead, she thought for just a second about arguing. But he was right, so she relaxed back into the pillows. Bellamy’s fingers on her calves loosened, smoothing over the muscles, working at the tension. Involuntarily, Clarke’s head lolled back, eyes fluttering as a soft moan fell past her lips.

Bellamy’s hands froze and Clarke’s eyes snapped back to his face, suddenly self-conscious.

What she saw sent another wave of heat rocketing through her stomach.

Bellamy was smirking at her, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side as though fascinated by what he had just pulled from her lips. Without breaking his gaze, Bellamy began massaging her calves again, dipping lower to her ankles and skirting higher to her knees and up her thighs.

Breathing heavy, Clarke watched Bellamy through lidded eyes.

She was suddenly and painfully attuned to her emotions, to everything she had denied herself and run from. She loved this man; she loved everything about him – his strength and his softness, his intelligence, his passion. It was so undeniable and she had been so ignorant to try.

The words were too big, too all-consuming to hold in and they slipped from Clarke’s mouth without permission.

“I love you.”

Once again, Bellamy’s fingers stilled. This time there was no smirk and Clarke’s heart pounded in her ears, fear threatening the confidence, the assuredness, she had so carefully built up.

There was a long moment before Bellamy’s fingers lifted from her skin. Clarke thought her heart might break before they settled on her cheek, gently tracing her jaw.

“I’ve waited for months to hear you say that.”

Clarke tilted her head into his touch, letting her lips brush the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist. He shuddered; eyes fluttering closed for just a second before they reopened with an aching vulnerability.

His voice was raw with emotion when he spoke. “I love you,” he paused. “I’m hopelessly in love with you, Clarke.”

Something bright and hopeful and needy cracked open inside of Clarke and she found herself wrapping her arms around Bellamy’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He was hesitant, careful not to bump up against the bruised and nicked parts of her body. Sighing in frustration, Clarke said, “I’m not going to break.”

Bellamy’s eyebrow quirked like he might bat back a snarky response, but he bit his tongue when Clarke’s fingers sunk into his hair, pulling him closer until their faces hovered just inches apart. Large fingers splayed on the pillow on either side of Clarke’s head, propping up the man hovering above her. Turning her head to the side, Clarke pressed a kiss to Bellamy’s forearm. His forehead dropped to touch hers and he whispered, ‘I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of,” Clarke breathed, the upbeat tone she was aiming for impossible to achieve with Bellamy’s breath fanning across her cheeks.

“Don’t ask me to do that again.”

Agony rippled through Clarke at the brokenness in his tone. She had caused that pain, that fear, and it made her sick. Wasn’t this exactly what she feared? Not just rejection, but the pain and weakness that love fostered?

“I won’t,” Clarke said, resolve turning to steel in her chest. She had been so myopic in her desire to protect their people that she had once again put not only herself but Bellamy in danger. It was over now. They would join the Coalition and it would provide the first kernel of stability their people had felt since landing on the ground. It wouldn’t fix everything, but, staring into Bellamy’s eyes, she realized that she didn’t have to fix everything – they didn’t have to fix everything. “Lay with me.”

There was hesitation on Bellamy’s part.

Clarke’s fingers slid from his hair, across his broad shoulders, and down his arm to twine with his hand. She tugged on it, pulling him down, emboldened by the realization that she could spend a few minutes just basking in Bellamy’s presence – it could be that easy.

With a sigh, Bellamy let Clarke tug him into the bed beside her. She scooted back, offering more space – ignoring the strain it put on her sore body – until he was fully reclined next to her.

Satisfied with his proximity, Clarke let her head rest on the pillow, staring at Bellamy’s profile. His eyes were trained on the ceiling far overhead – hyper-focused. There was a tension in his jaw and a rigidness to his body that was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying and infinitely frustrating.

“What is it?” Clarke asked, loosening her grip on his hand, giving him the space to pull away. He didn’t. Instead, his fingers curled tighter around hers and he groaned, eyes falling closed.

“This is good.” There was a current of agony under the words. Clarke’s brows pulled together, trying to understand what he was communicating. Before she could ask, his eyes opened and he rolled onto his side. His face was open and vulnerable – the mask discarded. “It’s good,” he repeated. “And I don’t know how to handle that.”

Understanding washed over Clarke. Everything was on the table; there was no more dancing around one another, no more guessing, no more of the infuriating uncertainty. And Bellamy was scared. Because every time things felt okay, every time they felt easy, something went wrong.

Clarke moved closer, letting her nose brush his jawline. “You’re afraid it’s going to end?”

The hand holding Clarke’s tightened; he was clinging to her like a lifeline now, breathing heavily through his nose. He nodded – one short, sharp motion.

The same fear had threatened to overwhelm Clarke only moments before and, now, she knew exactly what they both needed to hear. “Maybe,” she said, forming the words slowly, “things will go wrong.”

Bellamy huffed a humorless laugh and said, “Reassuring, Clarke.”

Her own laughter involuntarily bubbled past her lips, teeth grazing the soft skin on his neck in retaliation. “Listen to me,” Clarke admonished, voice falling back into a more serious register. “We’ve spent so long worrying about what might happen, trying to control all the variables. Maybe it’s okay to just ride this.”

The hand holding Clarke’s loosened and a sense of loss prickled at her consciousness. It only lasted a moment, however. Because, in the next, Bellamy’s fingers were trailing across her hip, up her side, across her shoulder, and over her cheek before retracing their path back down her body. Everywhere he touched left a hot trail. Clarke’s blood thumped loud in her ears and her breathing came faster as his fingers gently squeezed her hip.

She gasped at the pressure and Bellamy recoiled, horror on his face. “Did that hurt?”

A laugh fell past Clarke’s lips and she pulled him back to her, shaking her head. “It felt nice.” The words were confident, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away, nonetheless.

An answering grin stretched across Bellamy’s face and he tightened the grip on her hip again for just a second before loosening it, letting his fingers track up her side just a few inches, worming under her shirt to brush bare skin.

Clarke surged forward at the contact, connecting their lips in an intense kiss. She only had control for a split second before Bellamy’s tongue swept into her mouth, stealing the thoughts from her mind – narrowing her focus to him; to the hand trailing higher up her stomach; to the warmth of his mouth and the all-encompassing nature of his body so close.

They had so often been on the cusp of this, so often stood right at the edge without jumping in, and being here now was better than anything Clarke could have imagined.

With confidence, Bellamy’s fingers skimmed higher once again, raking her shirt up. They stopped just below her breasts, however, and he pulled back an inch, raising an eyebrow in question. “Please,” Clarke breathed, pulling his mouth back to hers as his hands – impossibly large – slid higher to cup her breast.

The thin layer of her bra separated his hand from skin, but she could feel the heat of his palm, nonetheless, and she wondered what the callouses of his fingers would feel like against sensitive skin. The thought spurred Clarke on, twisting so that she could pull her shirt over her head. Bellamy’s eyes were attentive, tracking her movements as she sank back next to him. He didn’t immediately let his hands settle on her body; he watched her with rapt attention for a long moment before a slow smile spread over his lips.

“Whatever the hell we want?” he asked. His voice was low and rough and his eyes were dark and it all went directly to Clarke’s core – dark tendrils of desire spurring her on.

“Whatever the hell we want.”


	20. Bellamy

Bellamy Blake POV

* * *

The throne room felt smaller with so many bodies packed inside than it had the previous day. The whispering clan leaders' voices merged in a dull roar. Bellamy strained to listen to the whispering clan leaders. He only caught about half of what they were saying, but it was enough to paint the picture. They hadn’t explicitly been told the purpose of this summit. Vague political phrases – treaty, future relations, agreed-upon terms – were being tossed around. The choice not to explicitly tell the clan leaders about the true nature of the summit seemed simultaneously wise and dangerous from Bellamy’s vantage point.

Despite the nagging sense that if the whole ordeal was going to fall off the rails, now was the time, Bellamy found it hard to be particularly concerned.

Hell, if he was honest, he was buzzing with how well things were progressing. He had kept Chancellor Griffin and Kane in the dark about what had occurred the previous night, spinning a story about Clarke simply being sick to her stomach – too much rich food, he had said with a shrug – a reminder that their food was often bland and geared towards sustenance over enjoyment.

The Chancellor had wanted to visit Clarke before the coronation – to check her vitals – but, with Lexa’s aid, he had kept her away. She still hadn’t seen Clarke since they parted ways the previous night and he could tell from the set of her jaw that it was making her anxious. But she wasn’t making demands. And that was a small victory.

A thrill ran through Bellamy at the thoughts of his other success – the image of Clarke staring at him with utter admiration, admitting feelings he had only ever dreamed of her sharing; the image of her writhing underneath him in the throes of ecstasy and the gentle way she had stroked his hair, combing out the tangles as they both returned to the ground. That was, undeniably, a victory.

Bellamy gritted his teeth, pushing away thoughts of the previous night, as a mournful and melodic song reached his ears. In the corner, a woman dressed in a form-fitting gown was singing, hands reaching higher and higher as the emotion and volume crescendoed. It was unlike anything Bellamy had ever heard; he wondered what Clarke would think, if she would add this melody to the repertoire she hummed while working.

“Clarke kom Skaikru,” an unseen voice boomed. The heavy steel braces of the thick, wooden doors creaked as they were forced open. “Legendary Wanheda.”

Tensing at the announcement, Bellamy turned to the door.

Clarke strode into the room with a confident air, chin tilted up in defiance. Her hair was braided in a heavy mass around her shoulders similar to the way she had worn it during her self-imposed exile and thick black paint circled her eyes, widening into stripes like a mask at her temples. A tight black dress clung to her hips; the front cutting off just above her knees, the back trailing behind her – forcing the crowd to remain parted even after she passed.

She had never looked more like the Commander of Death than at that moment. It had always been difficult for Bellamy to reconcile the Clarke who had hummed as she took Atom out of his misery, the one who had risked her life in an attempt to save Charlotte, the one who tended his injuries with gentle confidence and concern with the legend the grounders had created.

It was even more difficult now to reconcile the woman walking towards the Commander’s throne with the one who had so thoroughly wrecked him hours before. He couldn’t ignore, however, that this was a part of her – mostly legend, perhaps, but also a real piece of the person she had become.

When Clarke glanced back at the Skaikru delegation, her eyes were vicious and fierce. The hunger in them – for power, recognition, control – was foreign. The hairs on Bellamy’s arms stood on end and he let his gaze drift lower, to the soft red mark he had left on her collar bone – only barely visible.

They had to get through this, to gain recognition as the thirteenth clan. Then, there would be time to sort through the debris of who they were, who they wanted to be, who they could be together. Bellamy clung to that instinctual knowledge that – no matter what happened – they would be together. As best friends, leaders – lovers or something else entirely.

Clarke turned back to the Commander, planting her feet shoulder-width, stopping at the bottom of the dais on which the throne was elevated.

A long silence stretched out. The rustling of Roan’s furs as he cast a disinterested gaze around the room was the only sound. Even the singer had fallen silent, casting a hopeful gaze towards the exchange taking place.

Finally, Clarke dropped to one knee, the sound of flesh meeting concrete breaking the silence. That sound had haunted Bellamy only hours before – the image of Clarke sprawled on the floor, half-conscious, raced forward. His heart pounded at the memory. But this was different; that had been death, this was a rebirth.

And Wanheda was bowing before the Commander.

The singer’s song crescendoed. This one was triumphant and emotional and Bellamy was sure Clarke would add this one to her repertoire when he saw her head tilt toward the singer for just a moment as though memorizing the melody.

Scanning the room, Bellamy’s eyes slid past the Commander and settled on Roan. His arms were crossed over the thick furs he had worn the previous day. The only indication of his recently elevated status was the intricate antler crown perched atop his head. The center was emblazoned with the Azgeda crest – a simple cross with filigree at each of its four points.

Staring straight ahead, Roan dropped to his knee.

They’d discussed this the previous night – when he still thought the plan for his rise to power involved the poisoning of his mother. He would be the first to bow; the others would follow.

Bellamy watched as the realization of what was happening rippled through the crowd. Those closest to Roan took a knee first, spiraling out as more and more leaders dropped to their knees.

The singer’s voice faded, her eyes wide as she dropped to her knees.

A beat passed and, finally, Bellamy took a knee. Chancellor Griffin and Kane followed his lead.

“Hail the twelve clans.” The Commander’s voice was strong and projected easily through the room, echoing back somehow louder.

“Hail Commander of the Blood.” The clan leaders recited the words in unison, but one voice rang out above the rest, full of unmistakable fervor – Indra’s.

“Rise.” The command lifted the room back to its feet.

This was it, Bellamy thought. This was the moment where peace would be forged or forgone forever.

Clarke turned away from the Commander, returning to the Skaikru delegation, and taking her place next to Bellamy. Her arm brushed his and he let his fingers brush the back of her hand. She was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes – seeking some signal that things were going according to plan.

Bellamy nodded sharply, avoiding her gaze. Too many eyes rested on them – seeking weakness.

“We welcome Skaikru to our halls in the spirit of friendship and harmony,” the Commander intoned, eyes sweeping the room, “and we welcome Clarke kom Skaikru – legendary Wanheda, Mountain Slayer.” Shuffling erupted, the uncomfortable shifting of bodies; the leaders attempted to focus on the Commander, but their eyes trailed back to Clarke. “The reason for this summit has changed.” Several rough inhalations of breath and a soft grumble worked through the crowd. It set Bellamy on edge, eyes darting back to the doors, counting the steps to get Clarke out if things went sideways. “We are not here to negotiate a treaty with Skaikru but to initiate them into the Coalition.”

The grumbling grew. The shuffling echoed and murmurs began to pass through the crowd. The cacophony of noise grew louder, spurred on by the chaos. Bellamy watched the Commander attentively now. She was scanning the crowd with a disinterested affect – deciding how long to let this play out, he realized.

Her eyes met Bellamy’s and the disinterest gave way to a small flicker of familiarity, as though they were in on this together. They were, he supposed – not quite friends, but allies brought together by mutual interest. Lexa had proven herself – redeemed herself in his eyes – the previous night. She had heard Clarke was in danger and jumped into action; she had aided him in crafting the appropriate cover story; she had given in to their demands for mercy against her own judgment. There were worse allies to have.

Holding up her hand, eyes trailing away from Bellamy to scan the room once more, the Commander took a deep breath. The room fell silent. “To symbolize this union, the leader of Skaikru must bear our mark.”

The clans turned towards the Skaikru delegation with critical eyes, attempting to decipher which would step forward to accept the brand. Clarke shifted uncomfortably at Bellamy’s side under the weight of their eyes, under the expectation that Wanheda would bear the mark.

They had already decided – before stepping foot into Polis – that the Chancellor should bear the mark.

Now, however, Abby turned to Kane and whispered, “The honor should be yours.”

Pride flared in his eyes even as he double-checked with her that she truly meant it. A soft smile and squeeze of his arm seemed to satisfy his inquiry.

Turning to the Commander, her bowed his head, a deferential smile playing at his lips.

She nodded, her own smile tugging at the corners of her mouth but not quite unfurling. “Present your arm.”

A man – tall and lean, draped in a long black cloak – produced the long metal rod on which the brand was affixed. He extended it over an open flame and waited with a serious countenance. When he withdrew the metal, it was glowing a hot shade of red.

Kane rolled up his sleeve as the man approached and held out his forearm.

When the hot metal brand met flesh, Kane’s jaw tensed, a groan barely suppressed.

The crackle of sizzling flesh brought Bellamy back to the dropship; he had barely cleared the blast zone and elation had raced through him at having survived. Then, the smell had hit him and he had doubled over, retching, sickened by the smell. Now, he schooled his features. The only horror he felt was the realization that he had smelled so much death that a little burning flesh failed to turn his stomach.

Beside him, he heard Clarke’s rough intake of breath before her breathing shifted, growing shallow. Tearing his eyes away from the ongoing ritual, Bellamy glanced down at Clarke. Her eyes were creased at the side, tension radiating off of her body. Raising a brow, Bellamy cocked his head slightly in question. She shook her head – a small gesture – and looked away. He imagined she was remembering the same smell he was; her last moments before Mount Weather – before she was put on the path to becoming Wanheda.

When the brand was pulled away, dipped into a bucket of water that left it hissing, the crowd echoed the noise – murmuring amongst themselves. An aggravated red mark – raw and dark – was left on Kane’s forearm.

The Commander scanned the crowd, eyes landing on Roan as she said, “We welcome the thirteenth clan.”

Relief should have come fast on the heels of this announcement. Bellamy knew he should feel some pervasive calm. Azgeda was no longer a threat; they had gained the recognition of the other clans and the protection that entailed; they had a lasting and physical promise from the Commander not to encroach on Arkadia. For the first time, their people would be safe.

But the calm didn’t come. Instead, Bellamy felt directionless. His life on the ground had been so totally about protecting his people from the grounders and, now, they were grounders.

The Commander continued to speak.

A pressure at his side claimed Bellamy’s attention. He tilted his chin down to get a better look at Clarke. Her shoulder was pressed against his and her fingers had snaked through one of his belt loops. He let his hand lift, resting on her lower back, and pulled her closer.

And finally, that expected sense of calm relief rushed through his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is in sight! The epilogue is all that's left - expect a fun time jump and lots of fluff for the last chapter!


	21. Clarke

Clarke Griffin POV

* * *

6 Months Later

* * *

The sun was high overhead and the air was so hot Clarke could see the waves. The wet mess of hair – still damp from she and Bellamy’s morning swim – coiled atop her head provided some relief, but the temptation to hop back in the river was strong.

That desire was overcome, however, by the contentment of Bellamy’s fingers tracing lazy patterns across her bare shoulder. She could sit like this for hours – lying on her stomach, stretched out on the thin fur blanket they had toted along with them that morning.

“This is what I always imagined,” Clarke whispered into her arms.

Turning her head, resting her cheek on her forearm, Clarke watched Bellamy. He was seated beside her, one hand trailing her back, the other poised to flip the page in the book on his lap; it was a slim history text Lexa had gifted him when they visited Polis the previous week. He had devoured the first half of it already and Clarke predicted he would finish it before they returned to Arkadia at nightfall.

His eyebrows scrunched, eyes darting across the page. A sigh – heavy and long-suffering – passed his lips. The sound coaxed a smile out of Clarke. The book was about the military strategy of some conflict long before the bombs. He had been complaining about it for days now. She had caught him the previous night with one of her nubby pencils scribbling on a loose sheet of paper, trying to visualize the battle plans as they were explained by the author. She had watched over his shoulder for a long moment before he sighed – just like this – and dropped his forehead to the table, mumbling about how obvious the mistakes were.

Clarke rolled onto her back now and Bellamy’s hand faltered. A bubble of laughter passed her lips as his head snapped up from the book, heat rising in his cheeks.

Shaking his head as though clearing it, his fingers came down in a wide splay across Clarke’s abdomen. His palm was hot against her already warm skin and she wanted to pull him closer until they were both so overheated – so covered in sweat and exhaustion – that they had to retreat back into the water. The idea was a delicious temptation that curled tight in her stomach.

“Distracted?” Clarke asked, hiding her smile with a raised eyebrow.

A mischievous look filled Bellamy’s eyes and his fingers began to move again, tracing her sides, then higher to her sternum, and lower to skim her hip bones. A shudder rolled from her shoulders down to her toes.

“Distracted?” Bellamy asked, lips quirking up at the corners.

Clarke flung an arm over her eyes, hiding the way her eyelids fluttered as his fingers trailed lower. A chuckle reached her ears and his fingers stopped, settling back into a wide splay across her stomach.

“I could never have imagined this,” Bellamy admitted, voice low – somewhere between sadness and pain.

He had once told her that he didn’t know what to wish for, that he didn’t know who he was when he wasn’t protecting others. When they left the throne room so many months ago – after Kane took the mark – he had admitted that he felt lost. Without a war on the horizon, who was he?

Clarke smiled wistfully at the memory – it had been a painful and messy conversation at the time, excavating the deep-seated apprehensions and fears that she had so carefully boxed away.

But they had come so far since that day.

Arkadia had expanded; new walls had been built and more permanent structures were underway. Houses – real houses with four walls and a roof – had been built outside the original perimeter. Large portions of Alpha Station had been converted to community space; the dining hall had been expanded and the bar was now fully stocked with imported spirits – wines and beer and spirits Clarke had never heard of.

She and Bellamy had visited Polis several times. They had walked the markets, chatted with the vendors without the shadow of Wanheda looming too close. They had met the clan leaders and developed trade agreements for goods – fruits and vegetables and grains – that were hard to come by in their densely forested territory. And they had formed a close alliance, perhaps a friendship, with Lexa – she gifted Bellamy books and Clarke art supplies and she had even introduced them on their most recent visit to her newest guard – a serious brunette, approximately her age. She looked at the Commander without fear - affection painting her expression each time Lexa whispered something to her. It gave Clarke hope - hope that just as she had found her home in Bellamy, Lexa could find the same.

The undeniable fact was that they were part of a real and flourishing society; they were real and flourishing people. And they were safe. Happy even – for the first time since learning they weren’t alone on the ground.

And they were also this. Two people – in love – who could take an entire day to themselves, lounging naked on the banks of a secluded bend in the river; reading and drawing and touching one another to their hearts’ content.

Removing the arm covering her eyes, Clarke let her hand fall to Bellamy’s bare knee. Squeezing it, staring up at him, she said, “I’m glad you found me.”

The fingers on her stomach tightened for just a second, pressing down as though he thought she might disappear, before they relaxed. “I’ll always find you.” His voice was serious and his eyes implored her to believe him.

And she did. She had told him when she awoke from the poison months before that he couldn’t get rid of her so easily – now, she knew that he would never want to. That she never wanted to leave him again.

A comfortable silence swooped in, blanketing them.

The truth was, Clarke knew, that there were still hills to climb – there were most likely mountains they had yet to summit. The past six months of peace would probably not last for the rest of their lives; they would, again – at some point – be faced with the kind of life or death choices that had consumed them in the months after they reached the ground. There would be struggle and conflict and difficulties beyond measure; she might have to become Wanheda once again and Bellamy might have to carry the weight of new kills on his already burdened shoulders.

But, for this small slice of now, she could put aside the danger and doubt and they could live – they could love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... that's it.
> 
> Except... it's not - I have heard your kind demands in the comments and plan to make a companion fic for the explicit sex scene that I omitted from Chapter 19 and maybe one or two more? I also batted around some alternative epilogues that I might post in a companion work at some point.
> 
> But, for now, this is the end of the journey. I'm so thankful for everyone who read along as I was posting this fic and equally excited for those of you who have discovered this work more recently. This is probably the longest completed work I have ever written (fanfic or otherwise) and it has taught me so much about myself as a writer. This was 100% a passion project for me, but I'm glad that there were things in here that resonated with you all as well!
> 
> Also - for my fellow folks who love Lexa, you are welcome for the hinted happy ending there. I love the image of Bellamy and Clarke and Lexa all being good friends in this world!


End file.
